Someone Noticed
by BiteMeTechie
Summary: When the expedition to Atlantis began, several of the world's greatest minds were taken along for the ride. You're telling me that no one on Earth noticed their absence? I'd like to think as a species we're slightly more observant than that. SGA/Lone Gunmen
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I** don't own them, although I'm currently planning a siege on the studios in Vancouver with my fanfiction minions and intend to make off with several cast members. It involves an army of blue VW busses, Groucho glasses and several sticks of dynamite. It's a fool proof plan I tell you. It _will_ work.

And David Hewlett shall...be...MINE! MINE I TELL YOU! ALL MINE! -dashes off sounding suspiciously like Daffy Duck after a caffeine high-

**Summary: **When the expedition to Atlantis began, several of the world's greatest minds were taken along for the ride. You're telling me that _no one _on Earth noticed their absence? I'd like to think as a species we're slightly more observant than _that_.

Alright. First things first. This thing is **so** totally alternate universe. I'm not even going to try and hide it. Me? Techie? Doing alternate universe? GASP! Shock and dismay! Like I've never done _that_ before! -snort-

My view of events for this particular story is as follows-

Ford was never turned into a half Wraith thingy (Half Wraith Thingy. I know, aren't I technical?), there's no such thing as a Ronon Dex and the Lone Gunmen are alive and well and currently publishing their silly little rag for the good of mankind.

Reader: Yeah, but Techie, they died in Jump The Shark and-

Techie:-sticks her fingers in her ears and shuts her eyes-La la la la la I can't heeeear yoooou!

---------------------------

Neither snow, nor rain, nor heat, nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

Apparently, neither will several million light years, as somehow, the postal service had found a way to deliver all the way to the Pegasus galaxy, via the Daedelus.

Mail. Silly little sheets of paper folded inside other silly little sheets of paper. Something everyone on Earth seems to take for granted, but causes a commotion among ordinarily sane and reasonable professionals on Atlantis.

Every time the Daedelus arrived with a fresh shipment of supplies, it also came with a gargantuan amount of mail for the occupants of the ancient city.

Every time the stuff arrived there was a sort of controlled chaos that overtook the staff. A kind of happy frenzy gripped the population, everyone showing everyone else their latest letters from loved ones, their children, their fiancés, their grandparents.

Every time the mess hall was suddenly overtaken by dozens of people sitting around reading their mail and replying to it as though there was no tomorrow.

And _every_ time, Lieutenant Ford would be found off in the corner of the mess, sorting through his own stack of mail, carefully replying to the letters from his family first, and then sorting through his various subscriptions to various publications.

So what if they were several months old? It was still all new to him.

Guns And Ammo, Military Today, GamePro, Wizard, _Playboy_. Most of it the usual fare you would find in the possession of a young male military officer.

Most of it that is, with the express exception of a small, tabloidish looking paper called 'The Lone Gunman', who's cover was often graced with such headlines as 'Octium Four Chip Invades Privacy' and 'Teletubbies Equal Mind Control'.

His grandfather had told him the thing was utter claptrap, but he enjoyed it anyway. The commentary on various government conspiracies was entertaining beyond belief, very tongue in cheek, especially the stuff by Richard Langly. Aiden had come across an old tattered copy of the paper several years before, when he was starting college, and had been hooked ever since. A faithful subscriber for about five years or so.

As he drank his coffee and ate his...well, whatever it was, he flipped through an issue from the month that the Atlantis expedition had left Earth.

About halfway through he snorted a bit of coffee through his nose and almost choked on his breakfast.

_'Unexplained Disappearances Of Leading Scientists Sparks Controversy'_

The headline itself wasn't what had shocked him though. What had caused him to almost die of asphyxiation was a group of photographs beneath it.

All of which were of staff members who were here on Atlantis.

Zelenka, McKay, Grodin...there must have been at least two dozen pictures accompanying the article.

Someone snatched the paper directly out from under Aiden's nose from behind, "Hey, is that _me_?"

Ford turned in his seat to find Colonel Sheppard and Doctor McKay standing behind him. McKay, of course, had been the one rude enough to snap up the newspaper and had started reading it immediatly, his lips moving as he mumbled the words he was reading.

It only took a few seconds for the astrophysicist's eyes to bug out of his head.

"Listen to this- 'A rash of simultaneous disappearances has been reported throughout the world. The tightly knit scientific communities of more than a dozen countries have suddenly and inexplicably lost their best and brightest in one fell swoop, and yet no one is asking questions. Excuses have been made that have been accepted by the general public, but it's been our discovery here, at 'The Lone Gunman' that these explanations don't hold up under much scrutiny.'

McKay flicked his eyes to Sheppard, who wasn't looking even _slightly_ troubled, before he continued, 'To this reporter, this situation reeks of conspiracy and subterfuge, not only within our own government, but within the powers that be around the world. Among those reported missing are-' McKay flipped the page, 'Blah blah blah...Radek Zelenka engineer and inventor of-blah blah blah Grodin, Kavanaugh, Brown...' Why the hell aren't _I_ mentioned? You would think that with all the...-Oh wait, here I am-...'And Doctor Rodney McKay'.

McKay stared off into space momentarily as he thought out loud, "Huh. Must not have had enough page space to list _my_ numerous accomplishments."

Sheppard rolled his eyes and attempted to snatch the paper out of McKay's hands. Rodney, however, abruptly turned his body away so that the tabloid remained in his possession and resumed his reading, "We at 'The Lone Gunman' have attempted to contact several governing officials in regard to this matter but have received no response. To our knowledge, there is no official investigation into this matter from _any_ of the governments involved. What happened to these trail blazing scientists? We can only speculate as to their whereabouts. Alien abduction? Mass migration to the Bermuda Triangle? A group vacation to Hawaii?"

McKay snorted and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'I wish' before he continued reading, "Our own investigation has been launched so that we may bring you, the public, the truth. You heard it straight from the man: Melvin Frohike-_Editor In Chief_._ Look for updates on this article in future issues of 'The Lone Gunman'._"

"This could be a problem," McKay slammed the tabloid shut (well, as much as anyone can slam a tabloid shut) and slapped it down on the table, "You got anymore of these, Ford? That are dated after this one?"

"Yes, sir. But why-"

McKay grabbed up the stack of back issues that was sitting next to Ford and made to leave.

"Rodney where are you-"

"I have to show these to Elizabeth. There's someone on Earth that might be on the verge of stumbling across our-well, not on the _verge_, of course, the SGC is more discreet than _that_, but-"

"I'm sure they're already handling it," Sheppard said without any anxiety in his tone what-so-ever.

"And if they aren't, hmm? If they aren't aware that this silly little rag is in the middle of an investigation that may uncover our _true_ whereabouts? The SGC has to be notified immediately."

With that, McKay practically dashed from the Mess, leaving Colonel Sheppard staring after him, shaking his head, "You'd think the man would be _thrilled_ that someone noticed he was missing."

---------------------------

A/N:Alrighty, so I bet you're wondering why I went _so_ alternate universe. Well, frankly, of all the people on Atlantis, I can't think of _anyone_ other than Ford who would read The Lone Gunman newspaper. Which means I had to ignore the whole Wraith attack thing...I _also_ had to ignore that the LGM are -gulp- no longer with us.

I mean, can you really picture any of the other canons reading the thing? Something that's had 'Teletubbies Equal Mind Control' blazoned across the cover? Honestly, can you see McKay picking that up at a newsstand?

I sure can't. So, Aiden got the job. I've never written for him before, which was scary for me beyond reason. I get nervous around new characters. I mean, I take 'em out for coffee and try to get to know them a little better before diving into fiction with them, but it's always nerve wracking, especially when writing a character with whom you share absolutely _no_ personality traits. It's easier to write a character who acts like you on many levels...

Hm. Might be why writing for Rodney is so easy.

Did I just admit to being like McKay? Yes. Yes I did. I _am_ like McKay.

Someone, quick, shoot me in the head.

I have no idea where this thing is going. If anywhere. If _you_ want to see it continue, you'd damn well better help me figure out a direction to take it in. I'm thinking an investigation by LGM and some interference by the SGC, but frankly, I don't know if I have enough energy for that, what with the Plot Bunnies for 'When Plot Bunnies Attack' kicking me out of my bed every night, I haven't been getting much sleep...hey, any LGM/SGA fans in the mood to be my sounding board/Co-Author/whatever?


	2. Chapter 2

The Lone Gunman is not an _actual_ newspaper. There's been some confusion about that fact. It's from 'The X-Files'. Remember those three geeks/hackers who helped Mulder and Scully out on a regular basis? They're the guys who publish it, Langly, Frohike and Byers, and they're about to make an appearance in the Stargate universe.

Kill me for writing a crossover later. I know you want to.

Ok. I'm going to break about a million fan fic rules right now, but this was just such a perfect opportunity that I _had_ to. Behold, my first (and hopefully ONLY) appearance in a fic.

Be afraid. Be very, _very_ afraid.

-----------------------------

_The Hobnob Cocktail Lounge_

_Baltimore, Maryland, United States Of America, Earth...naturally._

The Hobnob. A Maryland white collar business man's bar of choice. Filled with used car salesmen, balding, sweaty underlings at major corporations, CEOs from out of town and various other palm greasers and/or ass kissers that make the corporate world go round.

The Hobnob. Where the live band is dull, the air is thick with cigar smoke, the bartenders wear bow ties and white starched dress shirts, and the Lone Gunmen wait for contact from their informant about this disappeared scientist thing that Byers' has been so obsessed with as of late.

Frohike had written the original article on a lark, since they really had nothing of more importance to fill page space at the time, and Byers had picked it up as the next great inter-government cover-up. It seemed like they'd done nothing but investigate it over the past several months, turning up virtually nothing, but still plugging away, relentlessly looking for _anything_ to prove that there really _was_ something rotten in the state of Denmark.

Between Langly and Frohike, Byers' interest in this particular subject was suspected to be brought on by his own connections with a certain female biochemist. One whom they'd not heard from since a particularly nasty incident in Las Vegas a few years before. Of course, neither Frohike nor Langly had had the guts to confront Byers on the fact that they were off on a wild goose chase because of his personal feelings in this matter.

It was just too hard to say 'Susanne Modeski' and watch Byers' eyes get all soft at the mere mention of her name.

Honestly, man, the chick had almost gotten the three of them killed on two occasions and he was still sweet on her. Langly didn't get it. She was hot, sure, but there were limits to what hotness could forgive!

Langly nervously glanced down at his watch and then down to the other end of the bar where one of his associates was seated. Byers, in his suit and tie, fit in a lot better with this particular crowd than he did.

Hell, _Frohike_ fit in better than _he_ did.

The clientele of this particular bar was about as yuppie as you could get, and Langly's 'Die Yuppie Scum' tee shirt did little to ingratiate him to the general scotch swilling public surrounding him.

Although the female bartender had given him quite a smirk over it when he first walked in.

And whose bright idea was it to suggest using code to communicate with the informant, huh? Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep asking people around you what they know about Dallas without them looking at you funny?

And some of the responses he'd gotten, dear God...

When he'd mentioned it to one of the few women who had wandered up to the bar, she'd looked at him with big, bulbous, blue eyes and said, "You mean like the TV show?"

And he should have known better than to mention it to a rather big, burly fellow in a cowboy hat and boots, as he'd thumped Langly violently on the back with one gigantic hand and shouted, "Dallas Cowboys! Yeehaw! You do know we're gonna win the Superbowl this year, don't you boy?"

Langly was certain he'd have a bruise there later.

Just sitting here, turning back and forth slightly on his bar stool, he felt horribly exposed. Where the hell was this 'Informant' anyway? They were supposed to have been here over an _hour_ ago. He glanced at his watch again and was only vaguely aware that someone had walked up next to him.

"What can I get for you?" He heard the bartender ask.

"Scotch on the rocks, babe." The bartender rolled her eyes, but prepared the drink without so much as a peep.

Langly looked up at the sound of the familiar voice and cadence of the customer.

Kimmy, a geek in huge glasses, the guy who loved to rub Langly's face in his failures, the twin brother of the now deceased Jimmy Beaumont, was standing next to him in the most God awful Hawaiian print shirt that Langly's eyes had ever had the misfortune of seeing.

And even _he_ fit in better than Langly.

Langly couldn't suppress the surprised exclamation that escaped his lips, "Kimmy, what're you doing here?"

The geek turned critical eyes on Langly, "None of your business. Although, I could ask you the same thing."

It couldn't possibly be that _Kimmy_ was their informant...could it?

Well, anything was worth a shot.

"What do you know about Dallas?"

Kimmy looked at Langly like he'd just suggested a 286 PC was the best technology available on the market.

"Well, Dallas, Langly, is this magical place in the mythical land of Texas, where-"

The bartender handed Kimmy his drink, "Lay off, Kimmy. The guy's had a rough night."

The geek snapped up his drink and gave the bartender a nasty look before departing the bar.

So much for that idea. Langly should have known better than to think that that self serving bastard was their informant.

He sighed and sipped at his cherry coke. He had asked _every_ person in the bar, aside from himself and the other two Gunmen, the sixty four dollar question and hadn't gotten the coded response.

Every person except...

He flicked his eyes up to the bartender, "I don't suppose, by any measure of a miracle, that _you_ know anything about Dallas."

She swiped a cloth across the bar, "I heard it was a lone gunman."

That was it. That was the coded reply. His informant had been standing right in front of him the _entire_ time.

"You...you're the-"

"Uh huh."

Langly got irritated, "Why the hell didn't you say something sooner?"

"Well in case you haven't _noticed_, I've been rather busy what with all the-Gentlemen! What can I get for you?"

A couple of men had sauntered up to the bar, already well on their way to being drunk. "Two more martinis, honey," one of them stated, slurring his words a bit.

Langly watched with mild interest as the bartender's lip curled slightly at the term of endearment that had just been used in relation to her. To her credit, however, she said nothing.

After preparing the drinks, and giving them to the two inebriated men, she turned back to Langly, "Like I was sayin', it's been busy and I can't really chat you up what with all these pickled pigs wandering up every few seconds. _Especially_ not about this particular subject. The walls have ears and all like that."

A pretty cocktail waitress wandered up and the bartender filled her order as quickly as possible.

"You seen Linda?" she asked the waitress carelessly, "She was supposed to come and take over for me about an hour ago."

Oh. So that explained it. She had been planning on getting off her shift an hour ago, that's why she'd set the rendezvous for seven thirty...and apparently, this 'Linda' person hadn't come to relieve her on time.

"Nope. She called though. Her car broke down," the other woman said, as she picked up the tray of drinks carefully, "She'll be in any minute, I should think."

"Alright. Thanks."

The barkeep took the three empty glasses that the waitress had left and slipped them discreetly under the bar to rinse them. "I'm Techie," she said, shifting her eyes from side to side quickly, watching the bar patrons carefully.

Langly almost snorted some of his coke up his nose, " 'Techie'?"

She glared at him, "It's a TAAA codename, you boob."

"You're with the T triple A?" He asked, almost in awe.

"Yeah..."

"Then why haven't you guys contacted us before now?"

"Gimme a break, huh? The organization just reformed three months ago and we're still trying to put all our ducks in a row."

She glanced about herself stealthily, "I really don't have time to talk about that right _now,_ though. You're Langly, I assume?"

"Yeah...how'd you know?"

"Call it a hunch," she said, glancing at his tee-shirt.

Another waitress walked up to the bar and she quickly filled the order...well, as quickly as possible without rousing suspicions.

"What have you got for us?" Langly ventured in a low voice after the waitress had left with a tray of drinks in hand.

"Finish your drink," was all she replied as she was beckoned down to the far end of the bar to fill someone's glass with gin.

His eyebrows furrowed and after she returned, he was about to ask her _why_ when she cut him off, sounding dead serious.

"Finish. Your. Drink."

Still slightly confused, he did as he was bade and after he had sucked down the last of his coke, she got him another glass.

Now, _that_ simply didn't make sense.

She set out a garish purple napkin with the words 'Hobnob Lounge' emblazoned across it in gold, and placed his freshly poured drink on it.

"Under the napkin." She slid it across to him and watched as he lifted the corner of the paper.

There was a CD Rom underneath it.

He looked back up at her.

"I got as far as NORAD, whatever the hell that is," she said, slightly annoyed, "Before they nuked my hard drive and my server crashed. All the information I got is on that disk."

She picked up the cloth she had wiped across the bar before and swept up a few pretzel crumbs, "Several of your missing scientists have ties with-well I don't really have time to explain...you'll see. There isn't much, and it's _heavily_ encrypted, at _least_ four times over, but it's a start."

A woman down a few seats called for a refill of her cosmopolitan and Techie obliged, giving Langly a 'stay here' look before she went to tend to the customer.

After she returned, she nonchalantly set out a fresh bowl of pretzels and another filled with beer nuts, talking under her breath the whole time.

"I don't know exactly what you guys have stumbled across, but these people mean business. They nuked my hard drive after I downloaded those files and I only _barely_ made it out of my apartment before the MPs were bustin' down my door."

"The Army is involved in this?"

"The Army, the Air Force, the Marines...it looks like _everybody_ has their thumb in this particular pie. I even found-"

A man and woman walked up to the bar and sat down a few feet from Langly, and Techie dropped her voice a level, "I even found concrete evidence of this going all the way to the President...Langly, for cryin' out loud, shut your mouth unless you're trying to catch flies."

Langly snapped his gaping jaw shut.

She gave him a pointed look, "They're hiding something…something _big_. Not JFK assassination big, not Watergate big, not even Romeo sixty-one big... We're talking _huge_."

------------------------------------

A/N:Uh...uh oh. The humor bunnies have abandoned me and left action/adventure bunnies in their stead! Oh no! What ever shall I do?

So...how was it? Did I annoy you with...um...myself? God I hope I wasn't being Sue-ish…XD I certainly hope not. What did you think?

Further more, have you any ideas as to where I can take this? Cause I'm coming up with...uhhhh...nothing x.x


	3. Chapter 3

Disgruntled.

Webster defines the word disgruntled as meaning 'In a state of sulky dissatisfaction; discontent'

When used here, however, the word disgruntled refers to a doctor; a formerly proud member of the Atlantis expedition who, after angering the powers that be at the SGC with his accusations in regard to Elizabeth Weir (and several others), has been returned to Earth aboard the Daedelus.

A man who was quite a genius in his own right, so much so that he was sent to another galaxy to help protect mankind and who is now a 'Consultant' for the SGC.

Consultant, according to Webster means 'One who gives professional or expert advice'.

According to Doctor Theodore Kavanaugh, however, it means 'Glorified paper pusher, kept on the company payroll for fear he might talk otherwise'.

Like he would talk about his experiences in the Pegasus Galaxy. Put the whole of mankind at risk by revealing the secrets that Atlantis and Stargate Command had to offer. Did they honestly think him to be some sort of stool pigeon?

Even if he were, it's not like anyone would believe him anyway.

So, here he sat, at a bar in Colorado, growing ever more sloshed by the second, several bottles of cheap, rather tasteless light beer getting him well on his way towards alcohol poisoning.

Not that any of those bastards at the SGC would really care if he managed to kill himself in this manner. Not that they would all mourn, and have a wake and say 'Oh what a shame, he was a good fellow'.

Most of them didn't even know his first name. It wasn't Calvin, or Jason or any of those other stupid little ones that he'd been called.

It was Ted.

It's not like it was complicated or anything, but no one could seem to remember it, regardless of how many times he'd corrected various 'colleagues' they couldn't even call him by his first _name_. Ted...just _Ted_. One syllable. Those morons couldn't handle _one_ syllable.

Bastards.

All of 'em, bastards.

He deserved to be on a first name basis with _everyone_ at the SGC. Bloody well _deserved_ it. After all, he had saved the miserable lives of several people on Atlantis throughout his stay there, Doctor McKay and Colonel Sheppard, two of the most important men in the expedition, included.

Which everyone seemed to conveniently forget.

He had taken it on himself to inform the SGC of Elizabeth Weir's shortcomings as a leader for the good of the Atlantis expedition, something that no one else had the guts to do, and what did it get him? Nothing. A big fat _nothing._

Now he was a pariah, banished to the bowels of Cheyenne Mountain and ordered to keep up with McKay's mission reports like he was some kind of secretary.

Did I mention that they were all bastards?

His brilliant mind, which could have been put to such great use in the war against the Wraith was being used for such mundane tasks as checking McKay's facts, cross referencing his experiments in the Pegasus galaxy with those that were being conducted here.

Even back on earth, Ted Kavanaugh was stuck playing second fiddle to that egotistical, self centered, self absorbed Canadian toad.

To say that the man was bitter would be a gross understatement and abuse of the term.

Kavanaugh was so much more than bitter. There were so many more colorful adjectives than just _bitter_ that could be used in relation to him in this particular situation.

Angry, mistreated, unappreciated, vengeful...all of them words fitting his view of himself _perfectly_.

Angry because he had been turned from a leading scientist on a trail blazing mission to another galaxy into Rodney McKay's girl Friday.

Mistreated because the people around him at the SGC shunned him like a leper.

Unappreciated because he had saved countless lives in the Pegasus galaxy without recognition.

Vengeful because...well, just _because_.

Oh, and nauseous as well. It had been quite a while since he'd had this much to drink and his stomach was doing a few uncomfortable rolls. What little was left of his rationally thinking mind, concluded that the feeling that his stomach was a washing machine on spin was a precursor to throwing up.

Throwing up; puking, hurling, blowing chunks.

He dropped a twenty dollar bill on the smooth surface of the bar and made a quick run for where he thought the bathroom was.

Instead, he ended up tripping on the door frame, landing on his hands and knees and tossing his cookies out behind a very smelly dumpster in the alleyway behind the bar.

After several moments of both wet and dry heaves, he rocked back on his heels as the world spun and went all pretty colored due to the amount of alcohol in his blood stream.

Or the amount of blood in his alcohol stream. He couldn't really decide which was which anymore.

His glasses hung askew on his face and he shook his head lightly, trying to clear the fuzz from his brain. Kavanaugh shoved his glasses up on his head and pressed his palms to his eyes until he saw green and burgundy spots.

After he reopened his eyes, he spotted something on the pavement under his left knee.

It was a bit of wet newspaper.

A bit of wet newspaper with _his_ picture on it.

Feeling very sober all of the sudden, he yanked the paper out from under himself, so quickly in fact, that he managed to lose his balance and landed with a graceless plop on the pavement.

_'Unexplained Disappearances Of Leading Scientists Sparks Controversy'_

On the opposite page, there was a phone number, a Maryland area code, with the words 'No story is too big, no conspiracy too far reaching for 'The Lone Gunman' to investigate. Got a tip? Give us a call. ' printed beneath it.

It was then that plan for revenge began forming within the sick and drunken mind of the man on the pavement.

Those bastards at the SGC would curse the day they crossed Ted Kavanaugh.

------------

A/N:Tada! Look ma, I wrote Kavanaugh! And I gave him a new name that has yet to be used in this fandom! Forgive me for giving a very much hated canon character a shred of humanity. I swear it was necessary, honestly. He _did_ save the lives of SGA1 at one point, didn't he? So he wasn't _all_ bad...

-dodges rotten tomatoes-

Why is there always someone who brings rotten vegetables to a speech? I did need to show some of his inner monologue, and he did end up proving himself to be a bastard at the end of the chapter, so hopefully that makes up for that shred of humanity I allowed him.

What did you think?

You know...aside from the whole tossing rotten tomatoes at me thing...


	4. Chapter 4

_Cheyenne Mountain Complex_

_Colorado Springs, Colorado_

An antsy computer tech is a rare and interesting sight.

Usually, as a species, they're calm, cool and collected and only panic when their e-mail server of choice goes down.

And It's almost entertaining to watch the sweat bead on their foreheads and drip into their brows as they valiantly struggle to combat a hacker.

_Thirty_ antsy computer techs, working valiantly against _one_ hacker in an effort to keep the most prized secrets of this great nation under wraps, fingers flying over thirty different keyboards, thirty sets of eyes analyzing data, and thirty mouths cursing repeatedly as their attempts at thwarting the intruder are foiled are not entertaining, nor interesting.

Instead, they can strike the fear of God into the hearts of the most seasoned of military officers with their anxiety, fear and unceasing techno babble.

Since the database security breach a few days before, things at the SGC had been rather tense. Someone had broken into the mainframe of NORAD and had gotten dangerously close to penetrating the security measures in place for Stargate Command's computer systems.

The techs working on combating the hacker who had penetrated their defenses had finally blocked out the intruder with scant seconds to spare. Just a few moments more and the secrets of the SGC would have been out in the open.

To say that they had cut it close was an understatement to the extreme.

It had taken almost twenty minutes for them to block out the hacker.

Now, that might not seem like much time to your or I, but within the confines of the world of technology, where computers can achieve in _seconds_ things that mere mortals cannot do within _days_, twenty minutes is an absolute eternity.

Whoever had broken into their systems most definitely knew what they were doing. When the on-base techs had tried to trace the address and IP number of the intruder, they had been bounced around on a grid filled with false names and addresses.

The hacker was using a lube line shunt. A device which was a reworking of call forwarding software, which made it next to impossible to trace the _true_ address of the cyber assailant.

Now when I say _next_ to impossible, I mean that it was difficult, yes, but it was doable.

_Very_ doable, considering the fact that after the base techs locked the hacker out of their system, they wiped out the hard drive of the interloper as well as sent the local authorities to beat down their door.

The hacker had gotten away through a fire escape, leaving nothing behind but second hand furniture, two file cabinets (which were set ablaze, when the MPs arrived, obviously to keep their contents away from prying eyes) and six different computers, whose hard drives had been reformatted only seconds before the military men had burst through the door.

Yes. They were dealing with a professional, indeed.

A professional with a sense of humor, apparently, if those false names and addresses that were interspersed on the lube line shunt grid were any indication.

In fact, it was said sense of humor that had tipped off one of the techs working as to the identity of the intruder.

Kimmy Beaumont, a recent transfer to the SGC's computer sciences department, made the connection immediatly.

Once he spotted the addresses '1313 Mockingbird Lane', '123 Sesame Street' and '1600 Pennsylvania Avenue' among those other fakes that were used on the lube line shunt grid, it was just too easy.

Of course, he didn't say anything.

Instead, he used his personal knowledge of the hacker in question to quietly combat her, fry her hard drive and send the MPs after her.

While the other techs on-base were celebrating what they thought was the result of _their_ hard work, he quietly slipped away and contacted his superiors at Area Fifty One.

"Report, Beaumont."

"There's been a security breach at the SGC." Kimmy said quietly into his cell phone, his eyes darting around, making sure he wasn't being eavesdropped on.

"Who was it?"

"One of the TAAA's agents," the geek replied uneasily.

"They've reformed." It wasn't a question, but a statement of the obvious from the mysterious man on the other end of the line. He did _not_ sound happy.

"Yes, it would seem so."

"Very well. This is a minor snag in our plans. Return to Maryland, keep an eye on the agent. Watch their movements closely. We can't afford a leak of information at this point in time."

"Yes, sir." Kimmy was about to hang up when the voice of his superior crackled over the line authoritatively.

"And Beaumont."

"Yes, sir?"

"No mercy. Remember what is at stake here. Not only for us, but for _you_."

Kimmy gulped anxiously, but hid his apprehension well, "Yes, sir."

The connection went dead and Kimmy stared at the phone for a moment before he slipped it into his pocket.

He had caught the first flight out to Maryland available that very night. The redeye. Quite aptly named, in his opinion, since every other traveler on the flight looked rather worn out and very, _very_ tired.

They, however, had the luxury of at least _trying_ to sleep. _He_ didn't.

He just _couldn't. _

Not with everything that he was thinking about running through his head, a raging torrent of guilt and anxiety that was causing a nasty sized knot to form in his gut.

As he sat in coach and killed his third mini bottle of vodka, he put his head in one of his hands and wondered just how he'd gotten himself into this mess.

He felt nauseous, and he was pretty sure it wasn't just the turbulence and the bad in-flight movie.

He was betraying one of his own, working for 'The Man', and he felt positively sick over it.

Granted, he'd never really been one to be concerned with the welfare of others, but there was an unwritten moral code that served as law amongst the general hacking community. One based on respect as comrades in anarchy and rebellion, and that was never broken.

No matter the circumstances, you never squealed on one of your own. _Never_.

But in this instance, what choice did he have?

He groaned.

Now, quite against his will, Kimmy was proving the old adage.

There really is no honor among thieves.

---------------

A/N:Ok, ok, I know I neglected this story for a couple of weeks. I apologize profusely and beg your forgiveness. My parody story 'When Plot Bunnies Attack' has taken over my life. -cough-read it-cough cough-

The first half of this chapter was finished for like, a week and a half, and I got stuck as to where to go with it. Then, this morning in the shower, it hit me like a rotten tomato to the face.

"Kimmy!"

And like...wait...who was the guy that had the idea in the bathtub and shouted eureka? I can never remember...

Thus, the plot has thickened even more. I've never really written actiony adventure before, not like this, I usually stick to humor with some action thrown in with a sprinkle of angst, so this is quite a departure.

Any thoughts?

Oh, and could someone out there who is a SG nut let me know everything they can about both The Trust and NID? I need to know some deep background info on them.

One last thing (seems like these ANs are getting to be as long as the chapters, yes?) I want to say that the majority of the hacking community is fiercely protective of their own (not that _I_ would know or anything -whistles innocently-) so Kimmy would indeed be feeling this sort of horrible guilt about betraying one of his kind.


	5. Chapter 5

Things in the offices of The Lone Gunman Newspaper Group were quiet.

Alright, so maybe it wasn't so much a set of offices as it was one huge warehouse crammed to the rafters with computers, software and almost everything else that any engineer/geek/tech nut could possibly dream of.

No matter what you called it, it was quiet.

Well, aside from the noise of Langly snoring noisily through his nose, and the sound of typing, it was quiet.

But that was nothing new. In fact, next to the sound of the Ramones blasting from Langly's speakers, the sound of fingers flying over keyboards and Langly snoring were the most common sounds to be heard within the warehouse at any given time.

Frohike was the one who was typing feverishly, the sounds of his keyboard fighting for supremacy over Langly's log sawing.

Byers was out on a coffee run, since the local grocery store would have _just_ opened, and Langly had passed out in front of his computer about an hour ago, around four thirty.

Of course, Frohike understood the younger man's exhaustion. He had been working on cracking the encryption codes on that CD Rom their contact had supplied them with for three days solid, so it was only natural that he would finally pass out from mental fatigue.

Of course, that didn't mean that Frohike wasn't going to give the punk grief whenever he woke up. After all, how many times had he given Frohike a hard time about his age and not bein' able to keep up over the years, huh? Turn about was going to be fair play, in Frohike's opinion. He'd been up for just as long as Langly had, and _he_ was still working.

Never mind about the fact he had about a dozen doses of No-Doze and thirty cups of black coffee swimming through his system at that particular moment in time. _That_ wasn't the point.

The computer in front of Frohike flashed a dialogue box at him, alerting him to the fact that the code he had just been trying didn't work.

Whoever encrypted this thing certainly wasn't careless. The Gunmen had cracked six layers of encryption over the past few days, and Frohike was quite certain that there were still at least three left to go.

It was starting to look like Byers was right about this being the next big cover-up, even Frohike had to admit that. It was suspicious for anything to be encrypted this heavily without something seriously huge being behind all the extra security. Even something from the Pentagon was easier to hack than this, and in theory, something from the North American Aerospace Defense Command should have been _easy_ to crack. Easier than the friggin' Pentagon at any rate.

Even _with_ all the extra homeland security measures that had been put into place over the past few years.

Although that _had_ made it quite a bit more difficult to crack into _any_ Government data cache, it had yet to prove impossible.

Which is what Frohike was beginning to think this current endeavor was.

Another dialogue box popped up, informing him that this code wasn't working _either_.

Damn it. He slammed his fingerless gloved fist on the desk next to the keyboard, jarring his half full coffee cup, partially upending it and almost ruining his keyboard with the wave of liquid that followed.

He quickly snatched a dish towel from somewhere nearby and mopped up the cold coffee that had just been sprayed everywhere, cursing under his breath.

That was close. The current condition of the 'family' bank account wasn't in any shape to handle another expense, not even one so small as a new keyboard. He had to stop being so careless.

Maybe he _was_ getting too old for this.

He picked up the cup and wiped up what liquid was left underneath it, noticing the brown ring it had made on his desk.

The old, beaten up, beige rotary telephone next to the keyboard rang suddenly, almost jarring Frohike into spilling what little remained of his coffee all over himself.

Langly stirred slightly across the room at the sound of the overly loud phone, "Just five more minutes, huh ma?"

Frohike spared the half awake Langly a long suffering look before snapping up the receiver, "Lone Gunmen Newspaper Group, Frohike speaking."

A voice slurred on the other end, "Is this the guy who wrote that bit on those missing scientists?"

Great. A drunk calling at five something in the morning. Wonderful.

"Yeah, that's me. What'dya want?"

The man on the other end of the line cleared his throat, obviously trying to make himself sound more credible, "My name is Theodore Kavanaugh," the drunk paused, "Does that mean anything to you?"

"Kavanaugh...Kavanaugh," Frohike kept the phone to his ear by bringing his shoulder up as he tossed the towel aside and ran a quick search through his computer's database. Frohike almost dropped the phone as the record for 'Kavanaugh, Theodore' popped up onscreen.

"You're one of the guys we have reported as missing."

It took only a moment for his eyes to narrow behind his glasses as something occurred to him, "Very funny, Byers. You think giving me a false tip is going to get my interest in this story piqued?"

"Who's Byers?" 'Kavanaugh' asked, "I'm telling you, I'm one of the guys you wrote about. Believe it or don't, I'm just calling 'cause I can help you guys out with this story. A tip, if you will."

"Alright, lets say I believe you," Frohike stated, "What information have you got for us?"

"I'm not giving it to you over the phone."

Frohike looked skyward briefly, wondering why it was that every crackpot in the tri-state area always wanted to meet in person.

"Fine. Where then?"

"Cheyenne Mountain Complex in Colorado."

Frohike blinked, now quite certain that this was a joke, "Alright, _seriously_ Byers, this isn't funny anymore."

It was at this moment in time that, in true cliché fashion, Byers walked up directly behind Frohike, a paper grocery sack filled with food in his arms, "What isn't funny anymore?"

Frohike jumped, "Don't sneak up on me that way you wily-Wait a minute...if you're here...then..." Frohike turned his attention back to the man on the phone, "Alright pal, I've suddenly decided I believe you. Name the time and place, and we'll be there."

"I told you already, Cheyenne Mountain Complex."

"Look buddy, you must be nuts, we can't just waltz in there."

Byers' head tilted questioningly as he listened to Frohike's end of the conversation, "No...no. That wont work. We would never be able to get security clearance. Look, I'm sure you're familiar with a bar or something where we could rendezvous."

Frohike snapped up a yellow legal pad and snapped his fingers a few times, indicating that Byers should get him a pen, "Uh huh. Yeah. Yeah."

Byers sat the grocery bag down, pulled a pen from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and handed it to the older Gunman.

"Alright. We'll be there." Without so much as a goodbye, Frohike hung up the phone.

Frohike yanked the topmost sheet of paper off the legal pad, which he had just scribbled an address on and tucked it into his vest pocket.

"What was that about?" Byers asked.

"Lead on your disappeared scientist thing," Frohike replied.

Byers suddenly got _very_ interested, "Really?"

"Yeah...one of the guys who was reported missing, well, he isn't missing anymore. Wants us to meet him."

"Where?"

"Colorado, believe it or not." Frohike ran a hand through what little hair he still had, "Managed to talk him out of Cheyenne Mountain Complex...barely. Said he works there."

"Cheyenne Mountain? Isn't that where-"

"Yeah," Frohike said, cutting Byers off in mid-sentence, "Exactly. All the more reason for us _not_ to go _there._ This guy-Kavanaugh his name is- he said that he knows exactly where all those other scientists and researchers are, and that he has proof the government had something to do with their disappearances."

"Which one?"

Frohike looked at Byers pointedly, "_All_ of them."

"So I was right," Byers replied, trying not to sound too pleased with himself, "This _is_ a far reaching scandal within the world powers. This might be the biggest story that we've ever covered!"

Frohike hit the eject button on his CD Rom drive and retrieved the disc, "It better be. I'm not forcing Gilgamesh all the way to Colorado just for the world figure skating museum."

Frohike walked over to where Langly had passed out and gave one of his chair legs a kick, rousing the blonde geek with a start, "Get up, punk. We're goin' on a road trip."

------------

A/N:Omg..I just wrote the gunmen -heart-. I've never had the guts to do it before -bites nails- did I do ok? Anyone OOC? God I hope not.

Tom Braidwood (Frohike, darlings) has been quoted as calling the LGM's old blue and white VW bus 'Gilgamesh' after the legendary...something or other, I can't remember right now. Anyways...any good? If not...um..-apologetic grin-

Oh, and I swear, even though I haven't been able to reply to any reviews (ff dot net seems to hate me in that department, I know not why) I read every single one.


	6. Chapter 6

Kimmy Beaumont had a problem.

I mean, in addition to the fact that he was currently betraying his friends and colleagues and working for the man, which _totally_ went against his grain.

He might not have been the most active in the conspiracy theorists subculture, but he was still a hacker, and therefore on the other side of the law when it came to the government.

Over the past four days, since arriving back in Maryland, he had been doing exactly as he had been ordered to do by the powers that be at Area Fifty One. He had been keeping _very_ close tabs on the T triple A operative who had nearly breached the security at the SGC, following her everywhere she went as discreetly as humanly possible.

When she went to the pharmacy at three in the morning for a bottle of aspirin, he shadowed her every step of the way, ducking out of sight whenever her head perked up. When she slunk into the local seven eleven for a brain freezy, he was sitting across and down the street watching her through the huge windows of the establishment.

After four days, he knew her routine inside and out.

He even went so far as to show up at the Hobnob where she tended bar, risky though it was, and there discovered that she was in contact with the Lone Gunmen.

Hence the fact he had a problem.

A _very_ big problem.

A colossal, huge, gigantic problem.

If there ever were three men who could gum up the works for his superiors at Area Fifty One, it was those three clowns.

The fact that they were in contact not only with FBI agents on a regular basis, but now with the T triple A as well...

Well, lets just say, they couldn't exactly _disappear_ and no one notice. Which made life harder for everyone involved.

Kimmy adjusted his binoculars slightly as he watched her step out the door to the apartment she had been staying in, which he assumed belonged to the TAAA as a safe house of sorts for agents under cover and on the run.

Every TAAA operative was one or the other at any given moment in time.

Techie glanced about herself carefully, narrowing her eyes as she scanned the street and adjusted the straps on her backpack.

Kimmy sunk down lower behind the tinted glass of the rental car's windows. She couldn't see him, but still...

She suspected that _someone_ was watching. He could just tell. It was written all over her body language. In the way her head would tilt as she listened for any sounds that didn't belong to the natural ambient noise of her surroundings, or when she would squint and look around herself, as though searching him out.

It made him sick every time she looked directly at him without actually _seeing_ him.

Every time, he thought for certain that she could sense him there. That he was only moments away from her walking right up to the car, yanking open the car door and giving him the yelling at of his life.

Which he totally would've deserved, but he still wanted to avoid it. She'd shouted at him once, way back when after she lost a game of Magic at some tourney or another, and he was pretty sure that his eardrums were _still_ recovering.

When she had actually called him by name as she gently scolded him for giving Langly a hard time while in the Hobnob, he felt as though his stomach had dropped out. It reminded him of the fact that they were acquaintances.

That she was one of his own.

That they _knew_ each other.

Had attended the same conventions, competed in the same tournaments, hacked all the same sites for all the same reasons...

And now, here he was _stalking_ her, at the behest of the _enemy_.

He watched as she stood at the bus stop on the corner, her head turning from left to right every now and again as her paranoia made itself known and she searched for anything out of the ordinary.

When she boarded the bus, Kimmy placed his binoculars on the passenger seat, turned the keys in the ignition and took off after the bus, following at what he deemed to be a safe distance.

Yes...stalking was most definitely the right term to use in this instance.

He felt horrible about it. Just _terrible_.

For God's sakes, she had helped to spearhead the T triple A, which was an _anti_ government, hacker run agency that was formed in response to the travesty that was Project Angel.

Which was run from the bowels of Area Fifty One.

Talk about cruel irony.

The number four stopped suddenly, and Kimmy stopped his own vehicle, turning down a side street momentarily so that he could see if she had exited the bus.

She had.

With one last stealthy glance around herself, she walked as quickly as possible up an alleyway and with no grace at all, clamored up and over a fence at the end of it.

Kimmy took a deep breath, parked his car half a block further away and looked at his watch.

He waited a whole agonizing minute before he bolted from the rented Mitsubishi and followed her.

He may have hated it, but that didn't change the fact he still had to do what they ordered him to do.

Kimmy grasped the chain link fence and shimmied up it, dropping on the pavement on the other side in a most clumsy manner.

He wasn't a complete moron. If he _didn't_ do what they told him, he knew the consequences. His twin brother had died at the behest of men like those that were currently holding his own fate in their hands. They had made threats, which he had no doubt they would carry out if he didn't cooperate and follow their instructions to the letter. It didn't take a rocket scientist to do the math involved.

If he hadn't been so terrified, he might have refused to do what they had asked. To infiltrate Cheyenne Mountain was no easy task, he _knew_ that.

Hell, any idiot knew _that_.

But when one is staring down the barrel of a gun, one's perceptions of a great many things changes within nanoseconds. Things that seemed quite impossible, suddenly seem much more plausible and things you would never agree to under normal circumstances become common practice and start seeming like totally logical actions.

So, he had agreed to become their go-to tech man on the inside.

He _hated_ it.

At first it was tolerable. He didn't really have any problem with smuggling government secrets out. After all, every form of government was classified, by him at least, as being 'on the _other_ side'. So that was no big deal. What business was it of his if one shadow government wanted the secrets of _another_ shadow government?

It was when they started asking him to reveal things about hackers he knew that he started getting antsy.

And now...now...

Well, lets not think about what he was doing, since that was downright depressing. Instead, lets focus on his currently compounding problems.

Techie was in contact with the Lone Gunmen, and she had given them whatever information she had gotten from her extra curricular activities within NORAD's mainframe.

Damn.

And now, she was walking right up to the doors of the warehouse that led to the offices of the Lone Gunman Newspaper Group and there wasn't a thing he could do about it.

Double damn.

Triple, quadruple, quintuple _damn_.

-------------

A/N:Uh...a couple of people wanted to glimpse my alter-ego again, and since she/I helps to push plot, well...here she comes again. I'm going to avoid Sue-ishness as much as humanly possible, because I'd hate for my first appearance in a fic to be something I'm ashamed of later on in life. So, I'm/she's just there to push the plot a little ways, because I can't figure out how else to do it without creating _another_ OC.

I'm kinda runnin' low on OC juice right now, what with all the active ones I've got out there currently, so I can't possibly create _another_ believable one. If I tried, it would seem forced, contrived and suck all around, and that is the _last_ thing I want.

I'm still kinda flying by the seat of my pants with this story (as I do with _every_ story, if my track record is anything to go by), so any bits and bobbles of plot you'd like to see or think of would be greatly appreciated.


	7. Chapter 7

Very quick, brief explanation of who Jimmy Bond (not the same Jimmy who is Kimmy's twin brother) is for those of you that didn't watch the LGM series as religiously as I did. Jimmy was a football coach, who was set up to take the fall for a group of terrorists in the second episode of the series. The Gunmen alerted him to this fact, and in his gratitude he decided to join up with them and has been working with them ever since.

I, personally, dislike Jimmy with a passion, but I can understand the need for him to be in the show to dumb down the techno babble for the...uh, less educated viewers. I mean, just because _I_ know what a ghost modem circuit is, doesn't mean everyone _else_ does. So..yeah. He kinda grew on me during 'Jump The Shark', but since I'm ignoring that part of canon, I can bash him all I like and not feel the least bit guilty. The Jimmy fans can bite me. I don't like him, and I never will. :P

Originally, I had no plan for Jimmy to make an appearance (I mean, you read about the fact that I dislike him, right?), but I found him to be a necessary evil in order to explain some canon facts from XF that some of you might not know about that will have a bearing on the plot.

Shut up, don't look so shocked that I actually _found_ a plot. Instead, fear the intricacy with which it has developed. After this chapter, things will be moving out of the XF universe and more into the SG universe. Everything thus far has just been to set the scene for the stuff that'll come later.

----------------

James Bond (no not the super secret British intelligence agent), called Jimmy by his friends, had been working at the Lone Gunman Newspaper for close to a year.

The man definitely wasn't reporter material, that much was glaringly obvious to anyone who spent more than five minutes with him. He had been a football coach for a _blind_ team before he joined up with the Gunmen, and before that, he had played the game through college. He was tall, muscular and classically handsome, and had **no** experience with journalism whatsoever.

He was a nice enough fellow, but the brightest thing about him was his over abundant optimistic idealism. The guy may have had a heart of solid gold, but he had the IQ of a houseplant.

A really, really _stupid_ houseplant.

Just to put it nicely, let's say there's a good possibility that he took one too many tackles to the head.

And now, the Gunmen had left him in charge of the offices while they went to Colorado.

Ordinarily, they would've taken him along, but in this instance it was better to have someone watching the fort.

Of course, there was no telling what condition the 'fort' would be in once Jimmy was done with it. The Gunmen had been gone for less than an hour, and he'd already started a kitchen fire.

How he managed to do that with a _microwave_, no one will ever know.

Luckily, no one was injured when the door to the appliance blew off and flew across the room with the force of the explosion.

After cleaning up the mess and deciding that cooking really wasn't an activity he should engage in while the guys were gone, Jimmy plopped down on the ugly whorehouse red sofa to watch the old thirteen inch television set on the coffee table.

It took close to twenty minutes of fiddling with the rabbit ear antennae before he got anything other than static, and even then, the only thing he could get to come in was an old rerun of 'The Price Is Right'.

Jimmy picked up a football off the coffee table and tossed it up and down as he watched a staticky Bob Barker do his thing. After close to half an hour, he was actually starting to get into it, playing along with the contestants on the show. He managed to guess correctly several times, and by the time the credits rolled, he was feeling rather proud of himself for getting things right when the people on TV got them wrong.

He didn't do quite as well on the next show though, but he never really was much of a 'Jeopardy!' man anyhow.

Sometime during final jeopardy, the door buzzer rang. The sudden, loud noise jarred Jimmy to the point that he sprang from the sofa at the sound.

His heavy brow furrowed and he set his football down on the coffee table before he strode to the door to answer it.

The Gunmen had left the security monitor running, so Jimmy was able to see just who it was that was ringing the doorbell. Jimmy always thought it rather odd that the Gunmen would forgo a peephole in favor of an electronic surveillance system, since electronic surveillance could be tampered with, but he eventually figured out why they had chosen one over the other.

Frohike never would have been tall enough to look out a peephole. Not even in his combat boots that had heels.

There was a woman leaning on the door buzzer, whom he didn't recognize. She was about five foot seven, in acid wash jeans, a faded red 'Second City Improv' tee shirt and combat boots with black and white checkerboard shoe laces. A heavy looking black leather backpack was slung over her shoulders, the straps very worn out and looking like they were ready to fall apart any second. Her dark hair (he couldn't tell if it was brown or black on the black and white monitor) was sticking up in every direction and her eyes darted around as she looked around herself nervously, almost suspiciously.

The Gunmen had told him that he wasn't allowed to talk to anyone or let _anyone_ in, but surely just opening the door to talk to her wouldn't hurt anything. Right?

She just looked so desperate that he wanted to render his assistance in any way he possibly could.

Maybe he could just help her and send her on her way, the Gunmen never need know, and it would make him feel better to have helped someone out who needed it.

Jimmy was yanked out of his thoughts as the woman on the other side of the door leaned on the buzzer again.

He looked at the monitor once more and made a snap decision that he really shouldn't have...he opened the door.

The woman's head snapped around and she looked at him with wide, deer in the headlights eyes.

"Can I help you?"

"I need to talk to the Gunmen," she said, dispensing with pleasantries all together, "Are they here?"

"They left about an hour ago," he answered.

"Damn it!" She stomped her foot on the ground, "Do you know where they went? I _have_ to speak with them. Have you got a number where I can reach them?"

"Uh..you can leave a message with me, and I'll give it to them when they get back."

"That's not good enough. It might be too late by then. I have to speak with them in person. Just tell me where they are."

Jimmy suddenly grew wary, "I'm not at liberty to reveal that information."

She gave him a look that said 'Are you _kidding_ me?', "You're not at liberty to tell me? What, is it classified or somethin'?"

Something somewhere in the distance outside made a noise and her head snapped around as she searched the horizon for movement. She turned back around and looked at Jimmy desperately, "I think I was followed. Let me in."

"I can't."

She took a step foreword. "Let. Me. In." She said in a tone which betrayed the fact that she was **not** going to take no for an answer.

"Look, I don't know you and I'm not letting you in."

"This is _important_!"

"I'm sorry lady. I can't."

She huffed, grabbed the doorknob and jarred the door inwards suddenly, causing it to hit Jimmy squarely between the eyes and make him stagger back a few steps.

"Ow! Hey!"

She shoved him out of the way and stepped inside, shutting the door quickly and throwing all the locks one right after the other behind her.

She turned around and leaned back against the door. Jimmy was rubbing his forehead where she had walloped him with the door. She looked at him apologetically, "Sorry about that. I didn't leave a bump, did I?"

"Yeah you did! That's breaking and entering, you know!"

"Oh please, like you haven't ever done it before," she said as she shifted her pack and started to walk past him.

She was forced to stop when his hand wrapped around her arm and he held her firmly in place, "What do you want? Who _are_ you?"

"I'm Techie and I _need_ to get in touch with the Gunmen."

Jimmy's brain went into overdrive. "You're the one the guys met up with in Baltimore."

"Very good," she said sarcastically, "Maybe you're not as stupid as I was led to believe."

"What do you want with the guys?" he asked, eyes narrowed.

"It's a long story and I _really_ don't have time to explain everything." She made to walk towards Frohike's computer, but he grabbed her shoulder, rooting her to the spot.

"Make time."

She glanced down at his hand on her shoulder and then glared up at him, "Paws off, monkey boy."

"Not until you tell me what you're doing here."

Techie sighed heavily, "What do you know about Kimmy Beaumont?"

"The little dweeb?"

"Hey man, watch it with throwin' that word around." she crossed her arms over her chest, "I'm a proud _dweeb_."

Jimmy had the grace to look contrite, "Sorry."

"Look, all you need to know is that I'm here because I think your boys have managed to get themselves in over their heads and they're going to need help." With some difficulty she yanked her arm out of his grasp, "You know I met them in Baltimore, so you really ought to know that I'm on _your_ side here...you have to trust me."

The blonde man looked at her appraisingly, looking for any signs of deception and found none. She had said that the Gunmen were in danger (albeit not in so many words), and he believed her. He released her arm, "What do you need from me?"

"Do you know where they went?"

"Colorado."

She bit her lower lip, "Where _exactly_? I mean, do you have an exact address?"

He shook his head.

"Damn." She screwed her face into a frown, "Then I don't really need anything from you."

"We could call them," he offered hopefully.

She waved the idea off, "No. Not safe. I'll have to find a way to track them."

Her eyes brightened as the proverbial light bulb clicked on over her head, "I bet you anything they checked for maps or something online for their destination...I'll just check their temporary internet files and-"

"No. No way. No one is _ever_ allowed to touch the guys computers. I mean, even I'm not."

"No offense pal, but I really can't blame them for _that_ particular rule." She walked over to Frohike's computer and set her pack down on a nearby chair, "But this is important. I _need_ to find out _exactly_ where they went."

"You still haven't told me why you think they're in over their heads," Jimmy said.

"It's a _really_ long, boring story," Techie hit the power button on the PC and waited for the little green light to flicker on.

It didn't.

"Huh. That's weird." Techie turned to look at Jimmy, "Did they unplug them before they left?"

The blonde man thought for a moment, and you could almost _see_ the gears turning in his head.

"Oh!" He exclaimed suddenly as recollection occured, "Oh yeah! They do that whenever they go on a road trip. I forgot."

Techie sighed and rotated her head, causing her neck to pop several times in the process, "And with all this mess it'll take an age to find the right power cord...fantastic."

Jimmy sat down in the chair nearest her and jumped when her backpack shifted of it's own accord.

"W-what's in there?"

"A rabbit."

Jimmy stuck his fingers in his ears momentarily, checking to see if there was any kind of waxy build-up that would explain what he had just heard.

Nope. Nothing clogging the ears. There went that theory.

"A rabbit?" He questioned, eyeing the bag with trepidation.

Techie sighed as she adjusted one of the wires leading off the back of Frohike's computer, "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"You might be surprised," Jimmy said proudly, "I've seen some pretty unbelievable stuff since I started working with these guys."

"I'll bet." Techie snorted, dropped to her knees and maneuvered her way under the desk, "Have they taken you Elvis hunting yet?"

Jimmy nodded, even though she couldn't see him from her vantage point under the desk, "Yeah. Langly was pretty sure it was him the last-hey wait a minute!" Jimmy sprang up from his chair, "I thought you didn't _know_ the guys!"

"I don't," came Techie's voice from under the desk, "but that doesn't mean I haven't glanced at the paper every now and then. Hey, grab me that green cord up there, would you? Just give it a sharp tug so I can be sure I've got ahold of the right one."

Jimmy did as she asked and there was a thump from under the table as Techie's head collided with it. Somehow, she wasn't certain how, but _somehow_ she had gotten her hair tangled with the cord that Jimmy had just pulled on, causing her to hit her head.

"_Ouch._ Ok... that's the wrong one. Hang on." Jimmy leaned back and tried to glimpse what she was doing, but couldn't, "Alright. Now."

Jimmy yanked on the cord again and this time, the geek under the desk made a self satisfied noise. "Alright, thanks."

She climbed out from under the desk and brushed herself off. "I'm a magician's assistant."

Jimmy looked confused. How did they get from power cord troubles to magician's assistant?

Techie circled her hand a few times, "You asked me why there was a rabbit in my backpack...I'm a magician's assistant."

"Oh," Jimmy tilted his head at her, "But Langly said you were a bartender."

"I was...last week." She plopped down in Frohike's chair and booted up the computer, "My job changes from day to day. I go wherever the TAAA sends me, which means lots and lots of undercover work. So, my job description changes from day to day based on who I have to get in contact with and where."

"Last month I was a circus clown." She shuddered as she typed, "Which was creepy for me beyond reason...since I'm scared of clowns."

She stared off into space momentarily, "Except the Joker...him I like for some reason." She shrugged and hit the button on the CD Rom drive, slipping a blank disc in.

Jimmy thought about this for a second, before he realized that something was off.

Oh..that's right, he had asked her a question something like five minutes ago, and she had managed to change the subject at least half a dozen times between then and now.

"You still haven't told me why you think they're in trouble."

"Well, you still haven't told me what you know about Kimmy Beaumont." She looked at him over her black glasses frames.

"I don't know much about him...Langly's called him in a couple of times to help hack some DOD stuff." Jimmy's brow furrowed, "Come to think of it, I haven't seen him in a couple of months, actually."

"Well, I've been seeing a lot of him lately, from the corner of my eye, mostly."

Jimmy looked confused, a not altogether unfamiliar expression to see on his face.

"What do you mean?"

"He's been following me around over the past few days." She clicked the mouse a couple of times, "He thinks that I don't know, but every time he's within twenty feet of me, I can smell him."

"What, you mean like you can sense him?"

"No, I mean _literally_ smell him." Techie replied, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, "The guy uses _way_ too much Old Spice. It's actually starting to-"

She sneezed so violently and abruptly that her chair rolled back a good three feet as she flailed.

She sniffled and snapped up a tissue to wipe her nose, "And he's outside right now."

Jimmy jumped up from his seat, but before he had the chance to do anything, Techie had hopped to her feet and grabbed hold of his sleeve.

"Don't. He doesn't know that I know he's been following me. I don't want to spook him until I know what he's up to." She looked at Jimmy pleadingly, "Just..sit down, ok?"

Jimmy glared in the direction of the doorway before retaking his seat, "Why would he be following _you_?"

"It's a-"

"Long story?" He asked, finishing her sentence.

"You catch on quick."

"If I remember correctly, there was an incident in Las Vegas," She said as her fingers flew over the keys on Frohike's keyboard, "Kimmy's brother was exposed to an experimental drug which was a derivative of AH gas."

Jimmy looked at her blankly, no comprehension on his face at all.

"AH gas," she repeated as she stared at him, searching for any kind of reaction that would indicate he knew what she was talking about.

"I uh...I haven't had the chance to read through all the case files here," Jimmy said, crossing his arms over his chest and trying to sound official.

She rolled her eyes, "AH gas. It stands for anoitic histamine. It's a drug developed by Susanne Modeski that shuts down higher brain functions and causes high suggestibility in the people exposed to it. It's also responsible for the death of Kimmy's brother."

Jimmy looked at Techie questioningly, "Suggestibility...like hypnosis?"

"Sorta," Techie made a frustrated noise at the computer, which was being uncooperative, "Damn. Still nothing."

Jimmy was quiet for a minute as Techie continued her search through the temporary files on Frohike's hard drive. They numbered in the thousands so it was a bit slower in going than she would have liked.

"What happened to him?" Jimmy asked after a few seconds of silence.

"Huh?" She asked distractedly without looking up from her work.

"Kimmy's brother," Jimmy said, "What happened? With the high suggestibility thing?"

"Oh. Well, the guys in charge 'suggested' he wander out in front of a fast moving bus." Techie kept typing, "And he did."

Jimmy's eyes grew so large that they might have dropped right out of their sockets, if that were physically possible, "You mean he-"

"Squished himself," Techie cut him off, with no tact or delicacy at all, "Yes." She picked up her typing double time, "Even though no one physically pushed him out in front of that bus, those men murdered him as surely as if they had shot him."

"I mean, can you imagine? Let's say you want to kill someone, a foreign dignitary or something, but you don't want there to be any traceable evidence that connects them to you." She looked up at Jimmy briefly as she continued typing, "You give the guy a shot in the arm and tell him to go take a header off a thirty story building. Badabing, badaboom, dead dignitary. And the beauty of it is, there's absolutely _nothing_ to prove that it was anything other than a suicide. It really is _the_ perfect way to commit a murder."

"I don't understand, how is any of this connected with the guys and the story they're working on?"

"Well, Kimmy started following me after I hacked the NORAD database for your buddies for their article. Then I got a message from one of my contacts within the TAAA about an organization calling themselves 'The Trust' who've been poking around, looking for info on the AH gas." She shifted in her chair, "The one connecting thread that I can find throughout is Colorado Springs. That's where NORAD is located, that's where Kimmy moved last spring, that's where most of the Trust activity has been reported and-"

"That's where the guys are heading now, to meet with one of those scientists." Jimmy said, finishing for Techie.

"Precisely."

The printer halfway across the room activated and spat out a sheet of paper, which Techie got up to retrieve.

"They're heading for a bar called 'The Slope', outside of Cheyenne Mountain." She shifted her jaw, "I _might_ be able to beat 'em there, especially considering the shape that van is in."

Jimmy got up from his chair, "I'm coming with you."

----------

A/N:Before you get too attached to this chapter, realize that I'm seriously considering deleting it tomorrow if I'm still not happy with it. DAMN YOU PERFECTIONIST NATURE! Ahem..now on to your regularly scheduled author's note.

Did ANY of that make sense to anyone? It's one in the morning, and I can't tell at this point. I've got this really involved conspiracy theory plot in mind and in order to do it, I had to spend most of this chapter explaining things, which _might_ have come off as dull. Ok, lets be honest, it most likely came off as dull. I hate pushing plot -grumble- BUT it's a necessary evil with a story that'll be a 'layer cake of conspiracy' (to quote my pal flubber).

Next chapter...uh..hm. I don't know what'll happen in the next chapter. I _do_ know that it'll be less boring than this one, and hopefully, there wont be any Jimmy and Fic!Techie in it..after this monstrous chapter, I don't even want to look at them for a good long while.

Oh! The bunny in Fic!Techie's backpack is an inside joke. Which you wont get unless you've read _all_ my SGA stories. -plug plug plug-


	8. Chapter 8

Road trips with the reporters of The Lone Gunman newspaper were always interesting affairs. Firstly, there was the packing which could go on for hours, if Byers allowed it to do so. Frohike and Langly could pack like no one else he'd ever met, discarding things that might be considered necessity in favor of packing things that would be considered extras by any ordinary person.

Leaving the jack at home in favor of bringing along the night vision goggles was a prime example.

After the packing, came the preparation of the vehicle itself which was much more involved than anyone knew, really. The old blue and white VW bus was an antique at best and a junk heap at worst. What little profit from the sale of the newspaper was made was almost always poured directly into the money pit that was the decrepit machine, and although it didn't get very good mileage and needed a tune up every couple of weeks, none of the Gunmen would have ever dreamed of selling the hunk of junk. It was too much a part of the paper's history, almost like a living, breathing part of the team. To sell it would be like putting a favorite pet down.

At least, that's the way Frohike had phrased it when selling Gilgamesh was suggested. The eldest of the Gunmen acted as though it was a sin to even think of such a thing. Frohike's pride and joy, a sleek black classic car was stolen several years back and he had immediatly latched onto the old VW bus as a replacement, even going so far as to name it.

Gilgamesh, warrior king of legend who went on a quest for immortality.

One had to wonder if Frohike did this deliberately in hopes that the beat up microbus would live forever.

Once the old bus was in fighting form with a full tank of gas (occasionally filled through less than morally upstanding means) and a fresh oil change, they were off into the realm of intrigue where they were the most at home. Off to seek the ultimate story, to prove the un-provable, to-

"Are we there yet?"

"So help me God, Langly, if you ask that one more time I'm going to climb back there and strangle you."

To bring childish road-trip bickering to a completely new level.

"We've been on the road for sixteen hours! 'Are we there yet?' is a perfectly logical question to ask."

"Not once every three minutes it's not!" Frohike exclaimed in exasperation.

"Since when can you tell time, doohickey?" Langly asked nastily.

Being cooped up in the van for such a long time was clearly wearing his nerves raw, as it was doing to the other occupants as well.

Frohike glared straight ahead out the windshield, counting silently and begging any deity who was paying attention at the time to grant him patience, serenity and possibly a big heavy stick with which to wallop the punk.

"Can't we _stop_ somewhere?"

"We can stop once we get to the motel," Byers said, his voice level.

"But I'm starving! I've got low blood sugar, you know."

"Then lose consciousness already," Frohike sniped, "The silence would be a welcome change of pace."

Byers looked up at the rear view mirror and caught a glimpse of Langly glaring at Frohike from the back of the van, laptop balanced on his knees.

He had a hard time keeping his lips from turning upwards into a fond smile as he listened to his coworkers argue, "We're almost there, Langly. Just about fifty miles left."

There was a dejected sigh from behind the driver's seat. "I don't see why we always have to be the ones to go meet _them_," Langly groused, "Just once I'd like for our contacts to show up on our doorstep rather than have to travel halfway across the country."

From the corner of his eye, Byers saw Frohike roll his eyes as he looked over the roadmap.

A vicious sounding growl erupted from behind the front seat, startling both men occupying it.

"What in the hell was **that**?"

"My stomach. I _told_ you I was hungry."

Frohike sighed and flipped open the glove compartment, taking out a twelve ounce Hershey's chocolate bar.

Byers knew from experience that a huge amount of chocolate on an empty stomach would make sure Langly was bouncing off the walls later and was about to voice his concerns when Frohike cut him off.

"It's either give him the chocolate and deal with the sugar demon he'll become later, or I kill him now." Frohike looked at Byers pointedly, "I'm perfectly fine with either option at this point."

Byers looked at the chocolate bar warily but nodded in the affirmative.

Frohike turned in his seat as best he could and handed the candy to the blonde haired geek.

Langly stared at the chocolate bar incredulously, "You mean to tell me that thing has been up there all this time and you're only giving it to me _now_?"

"So then you don't want it?"

Langly snatched the candy bar from Frohike roughly and tore open the paper, gobbling down the sticky stuff greedily.

"That's what I thought."

----------

A/N: Trust me, everyone is that cranky after a sixteen hour road trip. My cousin came to visit me from TN and it was like an eight hour trip with her mom and little brother in tow...she looked like she was ready to tear the head off anyone who came within ten feet of her. I wisely kept my distance.

I have no idea if VW busses have glove compartments. The second I buy one (it's my dream vehicle for _some_ reason) I'll let you know.

Langly seems to me like the type who shouldn't be allowed near large amounts of chocolate. Like McKay almost. Wow, that's a scary thought, yeah?

After much soul searching and head banging (mostly on my keyboard), I decided to keep chapters six and seven. That meant I'd have to rework much of what I had planned in order to make _everything_ fit properly. It was worth it though. I'm happy with what I've got planned. Next chapter, we'll be fully moved into the SG universe (consider the road trip to be a transitional chapter) and we'll get to see...uh...something interesting, I'm sure.

Hey, I like to jump off cliffs and find things as I fall, so sue me.


	9. Chapter 9

Some say that revenge is a dish best served cold. Doctor Theodore Kavanaugh on the other hand had an entirely different opinion and would have loudly and vehemently disagreed with whoever had made that assumption.

Revenge, you see, at least in Doctor Kavanaugh's opinion, is a dish best served with blue Jell-o and a tower of whipped cream, garnished with just a sprig of mint on top, washed down with a cup of black coffee.

Which is exactly what he was heading to the mess hall to get.

After all, his retribution was going to come to pass later tonight, when he would spill his guts to those reporters and then sit back and watch as their eyes pop from their sockets in a healthy mixture of awe and disbelief.

And nothing whet his appetite for revenge like blue Jell-o.

He could see it now. The three reporters would be falling all over each other to thank him for delivering the biggest, most important story of their collective careers. He would go down in history, like Deep Throat, for blowing the cover off one of the most well kept secrets that the United States government had.

There might even be a photo shoot and a cover involved in addition to his interview. Who knows? This may even lead to interviews with people like Barbara Walters or the guys at Sixty Minutes.

This little thought kept him humming all the way through six floors and half a dozen hallways as he walked towards the mess hall and his awaiting blue jiggly treat.

If anyone at the SGC noticed a sudden change for the better in the mood of Kavanaugh, no one bothered to comment on it.

For three days solid he'd been virtually skipping around the base, humming to himself and grinning like a madman. He thought he was hiding his glee, but if anyone had actually been bothering to pay attention to the man, they would have immediatly confronted him about the almost lunatic gleam in his eyes.

He entered the mess hall, brand new issue of 'The Lone Gunmen' tucked under his arm, and coffee cup in hand, intent on having his snack while taking one last look around the SGC for old times sake before he brought the entire organization to it's knees with his soon to be published brilliant interview and impending expose.

Kavanaugh, being the self centered creature that he was, hadn't given a seconds thought to what the consequences of his actions would be. All he could see and hear was dollar signs and cash register noises as he thought about a tell-all book he would write once everything was out in the open.

He snapped up the last serving of blue Jell-o (much to a female lab technician's disappointment), and then plopped down at a table, simultaneously scooping some of it into his mouth and spreading out the newspaper that he had tucked under his arm.

Pages one through four were the usual tabloid garbage. The world ending in two thousand twelve, alien colonization

Page six was a little more interesting. Elvis living in a retirement community in Texas fighting zombies on a regular basis side by side with a black J.F.K. and-

Oh, never mind. That was the conspiracy theory related movie reviews page.

Kavanaugh made a quick mental note to go and rent this "Bubba Ho-Tep" thing sometime to see what all the fuss was about before he flipped to the next page.

"My God," a voice startled him and he dropped a spoonful of whipped cream in his lap, "Is that an issue of 'The Lone Gunman'?"

Kavanaugh turned in his seat and was greeted by the sight of Doctor Bill Lee, dinner tray in hand.

"What's it to you?" Kavanaugh snapped, angry not only about the whipped cream down his front but also that someone else at the SGC was aware of the existence of this little gem of a newspaper.

There was no way in hell he was going to let anyone else know what he was up to…he also wasn't about to give Lee any ideas.

"Nothing, Doctor Kavanaugh, nothing at all. I just haven't laid eyes on an issue since nineteen ninety nine is all. I thought they stopped publishing." Lee looked down at the newspaper over his shoulder, "I didn't know you read it."

"I don't." Kavanaugh gathered up the paper as quickly as he could and picked up his tray, "If you'll excuse me, I've got work to do in the lab."

Lee nodded and watched as Kavanaugh made a mad dash for the exit.

Once out of sight, Kavanaugh bunched up the paper and shoved it into the nearest trash receptacle he could find, berating himself for his cockiness and daring to bring such sensitive material to somewhere that his intentions might be discovered. He ad to be more careful from now on, that's all there is to that.

Kavanaugh glanced down at his watch and noted that it would soon be time for him to meet the men for whom he was playing informant.

Just a little while longer and he would have the revenge he sought so desperately. Just a few more hours before the Atlantis expedition, the SGC and everyone involved with the Stargate project from this galaxy to the Pegasus would know that Ted Kavanaugh was not a man to be taken lightly, trifled with or scorned.

He smiled a little to himself, his close call with Doctor Lee temporarily forgotten.

The thought of the look on Rodney McKay's face when he found out who outed Stargate Command was enough to keep him happily humming all the way back to his lab.

------

A/N: I swear to God, I almost typed Theodore _Raimi_ up there like six times. I have Joxer on the brain today. It might have something to do with the fact I'm having an "Omg, I love Evil Dead and everything Sam Raimi has ever touched so much I could **pop**" kind of day.

You know I called a radio station when I was thirteen and dedicated a song to him? Joxer that is...

Shut up, it's not weird. All the girls at the slumber party were dedicating songs to fictional characters. I just happened to be the only one who didn't choose Jack from Titanic as _my_ guy of choice.

And they made _me_ place the call! You should have heard the DJ. He thought I was off my rocker.

"You want to dedicate what to _who_?"

"**We** want to dedicate a song to Jack and Joxer."

"What was that? Jockstrap?"

"JOXER!"

And I'm rambling again. So sorry. I've only slept like two hours in the past three days so I'm a little bit loopy. Whee! Sleep deprivation!


	10. Chapter 10

There are many terms that spring to mind when listening to Theodore Kavanaugh's fantastic story of government espionage, intrigue, evil alien influence that borders on human possession, wormholes, gates to other planets and ancient mythical cities in other galaxies.

Many terms, adjectives and synonyms that fit that particular situation perfectly.

Sadly, in Melvin Frohike's opinion, 'reliable source' was not one of them.

Listening to the excited scientist describe his outrageous tale in full living color at one of the warped tables in The Slope lounge, the journalist was beginning to think that 'sane' wasn't one of those terms either.

Well, at least this time around the fellow was sober, unlike when he had called the offices, but that didn't make his story any easier to swallow. In fact, Frohike was beginning to think that this guy was missing more screws than Mulder and that he was most definitely due for an appointment at the lab to get his bolts tightened.

It was sometime around the explanation of what a Wraith was that Frohike ordered a double scotch on the rocks to soothe his blossoming migraine.

Frohike and his two companions had arrived in Colorado Springs six hours earlier, feeling worn but optimistic, checked into their motel room, got a shower, some grub and then headed for The Slope lounge to meet Doctor Ted Kavanaugh as requested.

Frohike, on entering the bar, concluded that it was an even sleazier place than the Hob Knob had been. Where the Hob Knob had no illusions about what it was (just a place to get bombed between flights/cheap floozies/motel rooms) The Slope was trying to be more than it was.

There were skis hanging in what was supposed to be an artful fashion, ice skates tacked to the faux wood cabin walls and that hard, crusty fake spray on snow gathered on the floor in the four corners of the room, trying to give the place a 'Santa's Workshop Where You Can Get Plastered' feel that he supposed the owners thought to be cute and whimsical.

The atmosphere, the sleep deprivation and Kavanaugh's ranting was completely to blame for Frohike's head feeling like he was walking around with it in a vise.

When the madman had begun his story, it was plausible and he seemed passionate enough about it to make it more than somewhat believable and Frohike began to entertain ideas that this might be the story that made his career and got him recognized as a legitimate journalist and not some overzealous whack job with too much time on his hands. A small part of the eldest gunman conjured up a vision of accepting a Pulitzer Prize for his article on this particular topic.

However, the more Kavanaugh spoke, the more outrageous his story became and the more Frohike began to want a large glass of scotch to massage away the pounding throb that was developing in his left temple which was brought on by the realization that he and his coworkers had just traveled halfway across the country and spent almost all of their meager resources on a motel room in Saint Nowheresville, Colorado for nothing.

When the long haired scientist launched into a detailed description of a Stargate's chevrons, Frohike saw from the corner of one bloodshot eye that Langly was turning positively puce with rage and he visualized that Pulitzer prize sprouting wings and flapping away, replaced by a warrant for the blonde geek's arrest for murdering a harmless nut in a seedy bar with his bare hands.

Frohike should have known it was a bad idea to give Langly chocolate and then let him load up on cherry coke. The huge dosage of caffeine and sugar was making him more edgy and irritable than usual and Frohike had to keep gently reminding him to keep his loud mouth shut with a periodic kick to the shin under the table. It was only a matter of time before the 'sugar demon' that Frohike had been so ready to weather earlier made an appearance.

Byers, of course, was remaining as calm and neutral as possible, but Frohike could tell that even his ordinarily immeasurable patience was beginning to wear thin.

"Mister Kavanaugh-"

"**Doctor**," the irritating man corrected loudly, glaring at Byers as if that was the worst insult he'd ever heard in his entire life, "I didn't go to MIT to be called _Mister_, Mister Byers."

Frohike watched with interest as Byers' jaw clenched momentarily and then relaxed.

"Very well, _Doctor_ Kavanaugh," Byers began in an even tone, "I'm afraid we can't do a piece for our paper with the information that you've given us."

Kavanaugh's jaw dropped to the point that Frohike had to wonder if it was possible for it to unhinge and fall off his face.

"What do you mean? I've told you everything! EVERYTHING!" He exclaimed angrily, "I'm risking my career by revealing to you everything I know about the program, you two-bit hack!"

Frohike felt rather than saw Langly jerk next to him and put a hand on the geek's forearm to remind him of his manners.

"And we appreciate that," Byers replied respectfully, "But we cannot in good conscience write an article without sufficient evidence to support your claims. It goes against our journalistic ideals."

"My _claims_? You mean to tell me don't believe me?" Kavanaugh exclaimed, doing an incredibly good job of acting shocked.

"You understand, of course, Doctor Kavanaugh, that your story is," Frohike watched as Byers floundered for an inoffensive word to use in this instance, "Far fetched, to say the least and as legitimate journalists, we must-"

"Legitimate journalists?" Kavanaugh laughed scornfully, "You're science fiction writers with an eye for detail at best, gentlemen."

"That is **it**!" Langly sprang to his feet, the caffeine and sugar in his system converging with the anger and mixing dangerously, "We came all the way out here to Colorado and so far all you've done is recap the plot of that substandard sci fi show Wormhole X-treme and insult us! You've wasted our time, our resources and **my** patience, you jerkwad. I'm leavin'!"

Langly snapped up his windbreaker off the back of his chair, shoved one hand into a pocket roughly and drew out six dollar bills which he threw down on the table with disgust before striding purposefully towards the door.

"Hey!" Kavanaugh shouted after him, "Hey I'm not done yet!"

Langly just kept walking, flicking one finger, one very _special_ finger, up behind him in the direction of the loud mouthed scientist.

Frohike watched as the unmistakable look of desperation cross Kavanaugh's face.

"Wait! You want proof?" He shouted, "I'll get you inside and show you!"


	11. Chapter 11

_Meanwhile..._

It was getting close to daybreak by the time Jimmy and Techie made it to Topeka, Kansas after sixteen straight hours of driving, and Jimmy was into his third three hour driving shift when the woman in the passenger seat across from him let out a little huff.

It was the third little huff she'd given in as many minutes and it was a clear indication that she was getting annoyed.

The blonde man glanced over at her and saw that she had her head craned at an unnatural angle in order to look into the side mirror outside her window.

"Who does he think he is, Elwood Blues?" she asked distractedly.

"Huh?"

"Kimmy," she replied, still watching the mirror, "He's weaving all over the place, trying to be stealthy. Jimmy?"

"Yeah?"

"Watch the road," she said without so much as glancing in his direction.

Jimmy stopped trying to see whatever it was that Techie saw and turned his attention back to the road.

Five minutes passed in silence before she reached into the glove compartment and yanked out a roadmap. Using one hand to unfold it and the other to reach across and turn on the interior light, she murmured to herself, "This is getting embarrassing."

"We've still got three hundred miles before we hit Colorado, what're you looking for?" Jimmy inquired, puzzled.

"I know that," she replied, turning the map around. She tapped the surface of the paper with her finger, "There's a rest stop up ahead, two miles. I want you to pull into it."

"Why?"

"Tell me something, Jimmy, are you capable of speaking in sentences _other_ than those that end in a question mark?"

"Huh?"

"Thanks for proving my point so artfully," she said with a sigh, "Just...do as I tell you, alright? All will be revealed in time." She wiggled her fingers at him in a gesture that clearly said 'ooh, magical' before she started refolding the map.

Of course, after three minutes of trying and failing, she gave up, crumpled it into a ball and shoved it back in the glove compartment where it belonged. After flipping off the interior light once again, Techie returned to staring out the window at the mirror while Jimmy went back to watching the road carefully, keeping an eye out for the sign that indicated that they were coming upon the rest stop.

Two small hills later, the coffee brown sign announcing 'Camp Grounds/Rest Stop' beckoned.

"Pull up next to the building so my side of the car isn't visible from the road," Techie instructed, turning in her seat to look through the back window.

Jimmy pulled into the lot as instructed and killed the engine. When he turned to look at his passenger, he saw that she was still watching the rear window of the car intently.

He turned and looked as well, but saw nothing.

"What're we looking for?"

Techie ignored him and stayed quiet for a minute before she turned to look at him.

"Stay here," she ordered sternly, opening her door and slipping out onto the pavement in an awkward crouch.

She glanced around herself, looked at Jimmy severely and then shut the door as quietly as possible.

Jimmy was left to stare after her, wondering just what the hell she had planned.

------

A/N: After much arguing with myself, fighting with stacks of notes, and conferring with others, I finally came up with this to solve my fic dilemma. You see, what with Fic!Techie, Jimmy and Kimmy running around, there's this big dangling sub plot that I have to tidy up before I can move on. Thusly, things have been set in motion with this.

Now then, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go stall on writing the next chapter of When Plot Bunnies Attack by writing the next chapters of...something else. Probably my new SVU fic or...something -shrug-.


	12. Chapter 12

"I can't believe you're saying no to this, Frohike," Byers said from his vantage point on one of the motel room beds.

"Yeah man, don't be such a spoil sport," Langly added, leaning against the door.

Frohike didn't pause as he snatched things up from the dresser drawers and threw them into his suitcase, "He's a crackpot, Langly."

"Yeah, but he's a crackpot who can get us into Cheyenne Mountain," the blonde geek pointed out.

Frohike looked at Langly from over the rims of his glasses, "Blind leading the blind, that it?"

"Any way you slice it, this guy is one of those scientists that disappeared all those months ago, and as an added bonus, he works at Chey-freaking-enne Mountain complex," Langly folded his arms over his chest, "You saw the ID, he _does_ work there."

"He's still insane," Frohike replied, returning to his packing as though the discussion was finished.

"Maybe they messed with his head in there," Langly suggested.

"Or maybe his wiring was never right to begin with," Frohike tossed the last of his clothes into the case.

"It doesn't matter whether he's crazy or not, we can still get a story out of being inside one of the most secure military installations in the country," Byers stated logically, "It's not the answers we came out here for, but it'll sell papers."

"And _how_ is he going to get us inside, huh Secret Agent Man?"

"You heard the guy," Langly said, gesturing with his hand widely, "He's gonna smuggle us in under the guise of being research assistants. He's got the clout to do it."

Frohike slammed the lid shut on his suitcase, "If you believe that you're dumber than you look. And that, my friend, is one _hell_ of a feat."

"What is the deal with you today, Frohike? We're being given a plum opportunity to go inside _Cheyenne Mountain_ and you're passing up on it. What gives?"

Frohike banged on the stubborn left latch on his suit case, which was refusing to cooperate with him, "Excuse me for not wanting to wander inside a military run facility with Doctor Screw Loose as my tour guide."

The other two gunmen, seeing that the tactics they'd been using thus far were ineffective, changed strategies. Logic and whining. A deadly combination when in the hands of two men who were so capable in their respective arts.

"How many chances like this are we gonna get?" Langly asked in a whine, "Sure, the guy's nuts, but he's offering us the keys to the kingdom here. This is like getting permission to run around inside the Pentagon in our socks."

"In our _socks_?" Frohike asked incredulously, "How much caffeine have you had?"

"Langly has a point, Frohike," Byers said, ignoring the miniature argument Frohike was trying to start in order to take the focus off the issue at hand, "This is the proverbial opportunity of a lifetime."

"I can't believe you guys are even entertaining this idea!" Frohike exclaimed, "This guy Kavanaugh is off his rocker! Stargates? The city of Atlantis? A race of life sucking aliens? Come on!"

"It's no more absurd than Mulder's alien apocalypse," Byers stated simply.

"That's different," Frohike replied haughtily, "We've seen evidence that supports Mulder's story. This guy is making stuff up!"

"How do we know?" Langly spoke up, "Unless we see for ourselves, how do we know?"

Frohike was losing the battle, he could tell. The seed of doubt had just been planted in the middle of the conspiracy theorist's heart: always fertile ground for curiosity to sprout.

Frohike spluttered for a minute, "I-We-Damn it, Langly!"

"Think of the good side of this, Frohike," Byers began in that level, even tone he used whenever he knew he was on the verge of winning an argument with logical reasoning, "We're going to be inside the belly of the beast. What we learn inside could give us enough material for an entire month's worth of issues. Maybe even _more_."

"Or it could get us killed," Frohike snapped, "Really guys, this is one of the dumbest ideas I've ever heard. Considering we live with _Jimmy_ that's saying something!"

"If nothin' else," Langly said, appealing to Frohike's pride, "We get braggin' rights. We can say we actually got _inside_."

Frohike sighed, a sure sign that he was starting to relent, "Let's say, just for the sake of argument, that we _do_ go in there. What're you gonna do when we get caught?"

"Same thing we always do," Langly piped up.

"Get our asses kicked?"

"No."

"Oh...get arrested and _then_ get our asses kicked?"

Langly looked at Frohike like he was dense, "We'll get out of it."

"Since when are you an optimist, Langly?" Frohike asked flatly, "That's Byers' job."

"I'm not," Langly replied, "But we'll be kicking ourselves for the rest of our lives if we pass this up. _We_, Frohike...if you don't do this, you're gonna regret it too."

Frohike's jaw clenched together tightly as he gnashed his teeth for a moment and finally flopped down on the bed next to his suitcase.

"You know what this means, don't you?" He asked dejectedly.

"What?" His companions inquired in unison.

"I'm gonna have to unpack all over again..."

----

A/N: Oh God -gets all choked up- How I love writing these three. I miss them so badly -lip quivers-

Chris Carter, you Gunman murdering bastard...

My first Gunman heavy dialogue chapter. Did I do alright? -bites nails- Please tell me you hear Frohike's voice and not Techie pretending to _be_ Frohike.


	13. Chapter 13

Kimmy's eyelids were drooping behind his glasses and it was getting harder and harder to stay focused on the long stretch of asphalt in front of him. He'd been driving for sixteen hours straight without a rest, and that was _after_ close to a week of sleep deprivation brought on by having to keep an eye on Techie at all times.

Factor in a red eye flight from Colorado Springs to Maryland and you had the recipe for one incredibly exhausted geek.

It was a wonder he hadn't fallen asleep at the wheel and plowed into a tree yet.

Operative word: _Yet_.

He was _so_ drowsy in fact, he nearly missed it when Jimmy's car pulled into the rest stop outside of Heartland Park. He almost drove right by the parking lot but slammed on the brakes _just_ in time.

Heart in his mouth at the sudden surge of adrenaline, he shakily pulled the little foreign import into a spot next to a clump of pine trees. Kimmy gulped and took several deep breaths to try and calm down.

The blood was rushing in his ears, competing for attention with his heartbeat, which was thudding away inside his chest so hard it felt like it was actually hitting his ribcage, threatening to escape and make a break for freedom.

Kimmy sat there for close to three minutes, willing his heart rate to return to normal with his hands grasping the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles were white.

As the flow of adrenaline started to ebb and his breathing went from 'full on I-need-a-paper-bag hyperventilating' to 'slightly shallow and I-could-still-use-a-paper-bag'. He leaned forward and rested his clammy forehead on the uppermost part of the steering wheel as the last of his panic attack faded.

The rushing sound in his ears subsided somewhat and his entire body quaked as he took a deep breath in and held it, letting it out so slowly it was almost painful.

The life of a spy definitely wasn't built for the likes of Kimmy Beaumont. If he kept this up, he was going the right way for a heart attack.

Or an aneurysm.

Or both.

Or maybe even some horrible eventuality he hadn't thought of yet.

Kimmy released his death grip on the leather covered steering wheel and flopped back against his seat.

Well, at least he was getting a break from driving. Granted, it wouldn't be a very long one, just however long it took for the two people he'd been tailing to freshen up and swap places, but he would take whatever he could get.

Kimmy yawned and slid his glasses off. While he couldn't afford to fall asleep, he could at least indulge in some eye rubbing to banish that gritty feeling that accompanied keeping one's eyes open for long periods of time.

He gingerly rubbed his eyes, surprised to find that they were actually _sore_ to the touch. The sand that leaked from the corners of his eyeballs scratched at the tender orbs and he winced.

He had to find a new line of work. The James Bond thing definitely wasn't working out.

Kimmy let out a heavy sigh and his eyes slid open wearily.

When he realized that everything was too blurry to make sense of, he wiped his glasses on the front of his shirt and then slipped them back on.

The sight that greeted him once his vision was restored nearly sent him into another panic attack.

There, standing next to his car door, looking for all the world like she belonged there, was Techie.

The smile she was wearing was unsettling and set Kimmy's heart racing once more. If there was one thing that scared him more than the government muckity mucks who were running his life at the moment, it was the fact that he had an incredibly angry woman staring him down, who wouldn't have any qualms about blowing his cover and then leaving him to deal with the Men In Black all on his own.

The door was yanked open and he suddenly found himself tugged out of the car by the collar.

"Hi Kimmy...long time no see." The smile didn't fade as she pulled him closer so they were nose to nose, adding to the feeling of creepiness as she kept her tone level, "I want _answers_, Beaumont, and I want 'em **now**."

-----

A/N:Yes, I am aware that Kimmy's last name according to canon is Belmont. However, when I started this, I had conflicting reports as to whether it was Belmont or Beaumont.

I just picked the one I liked best. For story's continuity's sake, I'm going to leave it as Beaumont so as not to confuse the readers. Once the tale is finished, all the canonical spelling errors will be repaired.


	14. Chapter 14

Frohike tugged at the collar of his lab coat awkwardly. Whether it was nerves or the fact the thing was itchy as hell, he couldn't decide; both were excellent reasons to be fidgeting so violently.

Cheyenne Mountain Complex stood in front of the Gunmen, looking as regal and untouchable as any good, solid government installation ought to.

Of course, the reason it looked so untouchable might have been added to because of that huge metal sign about trespassers being prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

That was _not_ a comforting image.

"Are you _sure_ this is going to work?" Frohike asked anxiously from his place in the back seat of Kavanagh's SUV, tugging on the strap of his messenger bag that he had been given.

"Of _course_ it'll work," Kavanagh snapped, "I thought of it, didn't I?"

Frohike saw Langly roll his eyes in the rearview mirror, but to his credit, he didn't say anything.

"Now remember, you're lab assistants, here from...I don't suppose any of you speak a foreign language, do you?"

"I speak Elvish," Langly said, garnering odd looks from his two partners.

Kavanagh just looked at Langly like he'd lost his marbles, which, considering what they were about to try and do wasn't too far off from the truth.

"What?" Langly squawked, "I play Dungeons and Dragons man, it's part of the job description!"

Frohike shook his head and turned to Kavanagh, "Lord Manhammer here might speak Elvish but _I_ speak Spanish."

"Er...I know a bit of Latin," Byers supplied helpfully.

"Fine...these military grunts won't know the difference between the three anyway...you're all from...Tatooine."

"Boy, you sure thought ahead on this, didn't you?" Langly sniped at Kavanagh, growing more impatient by the second.

"Need I remind you, Mister Langly, if it weren't for me, you wouldn't have any idea what was going on inside this complex, nor would you be given the opportunity to walk inside it."

The blonde grumbled under his breath and Frohike clearly made out a few words that probably would have gotten Langly's mouth scrubbed out with soap as a child.

"Now then, I'll do _all_ the talking," Kavanagh said, "I'll tell them you don't speak English and that you're on an exchange program for sharing technology with the other world powers."

The Gunmen were handed three laminated badges, which they clipped to their lab coat's pockets.

"You look fine," Byers said comfortingly from his place beside Frohike as the vehicle shifted into gear and started towards the gates of Cheyenne Mountain.

"I got a bad feeling about this, Byers."

-

A/N:Gah. How did this story go from general Gunmen-ness to being Frohike-centric-ish? Old habits die hard, I guess...-vows to make self less of a Frohike fanatic-

A good way to start might be to stop wearing these fingerless gloves.

The funny thing is, you _think_ I'm kidding...


	15. Chapter 15

I'm sorry this hasn't been updated in an age (nor any of my _other_ Stargate stories) but the Batman universe has been trying to eat me alive these past few weeks (hint? What hint? I know not what you mean).

---

As the three intrepid reporters of one of the only still remaining conspiracy theorists newspapers in the country walked through the front gates of Cheyenne Mountain complex, each of them arguing with one another in a different language (one of which was _fictional_), about three hundred miles away, outside an abandoned rest stop in Heartland Park, Kansas, two geeks were having a stand off.

There were never two more viciously opposing forces.

Well, maybe that was a bit of an over statement, but they were definitely opposing forces.

Just not in an epic Darth Vader versus Obi Wan way. More like in a bickering sibling 'give me back my new CD or mom is going to be looking for pieces of you next week' way.

Of course, that didn't make the confrontation any less intense.

"Don't hit me!" Kimmy clamped his hands over his face, protecting himself from what was sure to be a nose crushing blow.

There was an exasperated sigh and exaggerated eye rolling from the woman who had her hands fisted around his collar, "Oh for Pete's sake, I'm _not_ going to hit you."

He parted his fingers enough so that he could peep out from between them, "You're...not?"

"Not until I get the information I want."

"Reassuring," he muttered, still watching her carefully from between his fingers.

"Let's start with something simple, shall we? _Why_ are you following me?"

Kimmy dropped his hands and leveled his eyes at her, "What gave me away?"

"Two questions do not an answer make, Kimmy." She tightened her grip on his collar threateningly as though to reassert the fact that _she_ was in control here, "Why are you following me?"

He remained silent.

Which was a good thing because she seemed to be gearing up for _quite_ a rant.

"Did you think I was _stupid_? Did you think I wouldn't notice the distinctly geek shaped shadow that followed me _everywhere_ I went? Stealth is not your forte, my friend. Never has been, never will be. Now, I know you're working for someone inside Area Fifty One, I just want to know which _faction_. Is it Project Angel? The Trust? The men in black?" She shook him, "Who?"

"And here I thought you knew everything," He said cheekily.

Which was a bad idea because the look she shot him could have conceivably melted steel.

"I've got so many dogs nipping at my heels at any given moment that it takes effort to keep the breeds straight. If someone's out for my blood, I want to know **who**! I know it's got something to do with that NORAD hack; what did we uncover?"

"We?" He asked, trying to buy time.

"Yes, _we_, you daft man."

"Then you were working on the orders of the TAAA?"

She narrowed her eyes at him a fraction of an inch, "_Why_?"

He didn't like the way she was looking at him. He didn't like it at _all_. Like she was a predator.

"Just curious."

"So you _are_ working for _them_. The only people really interested in the activities of the T triple A are the men who ran Project Angel."

His silence spoke volumes and she released his collar and stepped away from him like he was tainted.

"How _could_ you?" She looked genuinely _hurt_, "Kimmy, of all the sides you could turn to--of all the men you could sell your soul to--_them_?"

"I didn't have a choice," he said.

"Bull. You've always got a choice," Techie said, "You could've come to us. We could protect you, Kimmy, you know that. That's what we _do_."

He looked at her miserably, "You think I want to spend the rest of my life running from safe house to safe house as one of your _agents_ just so I can earn my keep?"

She was stunned, "You really think that's why we do what we do? You really think _that_'s why I'm an agent? To repay a _debt_?"

"Isn't it? You know they'll stop payin' your bills the second you stop doing their bidding."

"Kimmy!" She exclaimed, scandalized, "I helped to create the agency! We're not another shadow government lookin' to-"

"Yes you are!" He pointed a finger at her, "And I am _not_ going to pledge my allegiance to some _agency_ and put my life on the line day after day all for the sake of your twisted idea of _brotherhood_."

Techie looked at him, incredulous, "Oh, but you'll do it for the guys at Area Fifty One."

"That's different," he answered, perfectly aware of how lame that must have sounded, "They've got me in a death grip and they're _making_ me do their dirty work. If I'd gone to your _agency_, I'd be doing the exact same kind of thing but for a different organization."

"We don't do 'dirty work'," she answered haughtily.

"The hell you don't," he sneered, "Some of the things your agency has done is as bad as what _they've_ done."

Kimmy realized his mistake half a second too late when her eyes flashed and her demeanor changed from 'I just want to help you' to 'I'm going to _kill_ you' in seconds flat.

_Uh oh. Shouldn't have said that._

"Don't you **dare** compare _us_ to _them_. Have you forgotten what Project Angel was? Huh?" She shoved him angrily, "They were _using_ us! Snatching up every available decent hacker in sight and _twisting_ them for their purposes! Do you remember what happened to those of us who didn't want to cooperate?"

"In case you've forgotten, Kim, there are almost a hundred of _us_ who can't even remember their own names because of what the men responsible for Project Angel did! Scrambled their brains so badly they have to be watched around the clock! They can't feed themselves, can't speak! They're so close to catatonic they could be a punch line to a bad joke!"

She shoved him so hard that his back collided with his rental car and he slid to the ground, leaving Techie to point at him angrily and shout, "Don't you **ever** compare the T triple A's methods to what those...those...those-" she spent thirty seconds flailing her hands as she searched for a proper cutting word to define the men who had torn into her adopted family's inner circle, "those **_monsters_** did to us!"

Kimmy felt rather small when she looked him straight in the eye, looking for all the world like she was ready to jump on him and pummel him, "We stick by our own, Kimmy, a fact that you seem to have conveniently forgotten!"

The reminder of his betrayal mixed with his emotional exhaustion and he leapt to his feet, nearing the end of his proverbial rope, "Don't even _start_ that garbage! I didn't have a choice!"

"Oh, suuuure you didn't. You _knew_ you could come to the TAAA if you really needed to, you just didn't _want_ to! You'd rather work for _them_ than lean on somebody else!" She was red in the face now, a big flushed ball of fury, "It's always been us and them, Kimmy! Always! Order and chaos, government and anarchy, the outsiders versus the establishment! Only you've crossed the line into _their_ territory! _We_ have our own code; our own ethics and rule number one is never betray your brother! Tell me you didn't tell them my name, Kimmy! Tell me you didn't rat me out! C'mon, I dare you to lie to my face!"

"I didn't!" He defended, "They don't even know I _know_ you!"

"Liar!" Techie accused, "You sent the MPs after me! I barely escaped with my hide intact!"

"I did not! _They_ did!"

"And _they_ never would have known where to find me if it hadn't been for _you_!"

"Is that what this is about? You're mad at me because your cover was blown? Because you lost a little bit of equipment, maybe a few files here and there? They would have found you eventually anyway! You're not the master hacker you think you are, you're just a second rate wannabe with delusions of grandeur! Those hacks you pulled off were so sloppy a five year old could have traced you, Lydia!"

Kimmy was stunned into silence when his glasses were knocked from his face and skittered across the parking lot as she slapped him.

_Hard_.

The geek blinked, knowing that he'd crossed the line. Techie didn't like to be reminded of who she _used_ to be; before the TAAA, before hacking. It was a trait that many of the agents shared. After all, one could become someone else much easier if they had no desire to remember who they _really_ were. It was like slipping into a new skin and leaving the old one behind; the way one would slip into new outfit, not an identity.

"Don't **ever** say that name!" She spat, the words coming out precise and absolutely furious, "I left _her_ behind a long time ago."

Kimmy stood up to her, his feet shoulder width apart, trying to be as intimidating as his small stature would allow, "Look at you, you're no better than I am, no matter what you _think_. You abandoned your own identity for your precious _cause_; traded in your name for a code word to further your agenda and discarded who you used to be to fit into the agency's mold. Where have I heard _that_ before?"

She turned away from him, fuming with her hands clenched into fists at her sides, but unwilling to meet his gaze as he continued.

"How many nameless faceless agents are there at Area Fifty One, who did the exact same thing for a cause _they_ believe in?"

"That's different," she said calmly, not turning to look at him.

"Is it? Is it _really_?" Kimmy scoffed loudly, "The goals may be different but the methods are the same."

"Ironic that you're saying I'm like _them_." Techie rounded on him, "Especially considering the fact _you're_ the one who was working on the other side."

"I didn't have a _choice_!" He was getting angry again, "They caught me hacking into DOD files! They were going to _kill_ me! **KILL**! As in dead on arrival, bullet to the brain, nameless faceless victim, kill! I didn't have _time_ to contact you or anyone _else_ for that matter! So yes, I sold my soul to save my skin. You would have done the same!"

"Contrary to what you seem to think of me, I _do_ have ethics, unlike _some_ people I know."

"Don't talk to me about _ethics_," he squawked, "You wouldn't know a good set of ethics if they came up and bit you on the ass! You think because you stick with the outsiders--because you've got your own little group that accepts you and your skewed morals--that everything you do is accepted ethical behavior?"

"Don't you _dare_ pull the 'you're breaking the law' card, Kimmy! I may have done plenty of _illegal_ things, but **never** have I done anything _unethical_."

"Did it ever occur to you that there are reasons why some things aren't supposed to be hacked?" He asked scathingly, "That there really _is_ more to it than just the Men In Black and that there's something that **needs** to be kept hidden from the world to keep it safe?"

She laughed at him.

She _laughed_ at him.

"Listen to you, you're spouting their rhetoric and passing it off as original thought," her eyes were shining, half in mirth and half in anger, "What's so important then, hm? What could it possibly be that's _so_ huge the whole world needs to be kept in the dark about it, huh?"

Kimmy didn't get to answer as a shot rang out and the car window behind him exploded in a shower of glass shards.

Before he knew what was happening, he'd been yanked down on the ground by the collar, flat on his stomach.

There was another series of shots and he covered his head with his arms instinctively as the other car windows shattered and there were bullets lodged in the rental car's side.

Then he was being tugged by the arm and was on his feet and moving.

Stumbling as Techie dragged him after her towards where Jimmy's car was parked where she flung open the door and tossed him inside.

She landed with a thud in the passenger seat next to Jimmy, who looked like a startled animal, "Drive, Jimmy!"

The car was started and roared away, going from zero to sixty so fast that Kimmy's stomach was hurled into his throat.

"It's a good thing those government contracted guys are horrible shots or we might be in _serious_ trouble."

The back window was shot out and Kimmy saw the mask of unshakable cool slip out of place for a second to be replaced by naked panic-

"Jimmy?" she said shakily, "**DRIVE FASTER.**"

-

A/N: And this is where Fic!Techie and Real!Techie truly seem to be one and the same. I've even given her my temper and she speaks _just_ like me with the same attitude...ahem.

The TAAA and Project Angel have been ideas at the back of my head for the past...oh lord, five years at least. Back when The Lone Gunmen was still on the air the idea for the agencies came to me...there's a long, complicated history between the two, which _will_ be touched upon here, but I'm saving most of it for original fiction...


	16. Chapter 16

"Step on it, Jimmy!"

Jimmy was far from being in the position to argue the point as the car roared down the deserted highway, "Where are we going?"

"As far away from _them_ as humanly possible!" Techie shouted as she pegged a thumb in the direction of the two cars in hot pursuit. The back window being gone added to the racket within the automobile and her hair was whipping around her face violently as she twisted in her seat to look at their charge in the back.

"Still alive, Beaumont? Missing anything vital?"

Kimmy was curled up on the backseat with his arms covering his head to keep the shattered glass of the rear window from cutting him to ribbons. He managed a grunt in response to her query.

A weight dropped by his feet and his survival instincts forced him to recoil from it as he scrambled up and back towards the nearest car door.

The only problem with this action was that it now made his head level with the back window.

Kimmy very nearly lost the top of his skull as a bullet whizzed over it and lodged itself in the windshield, causing the glass to spider web and the car to swerve as Jimmy tried to compensate.

"GET DOWN YOU IDIOT!" Techie screamed as she grabbed him by the collar and yanked him down.

Apparently, the weight dropping at his feet had been _her_ wriggling out of her seat and into the back _with_ him. How she had managed such a maneuver with the car weaving all over the highway, Kimmy would never know.

"What the hell are you doin'?" He squeaked, keeping his body pressed in on itself as much as he could as he watched her struggle with the buckle on the leather backpack in the floorboard.

"Just stay **DOWN**!" She rummaged around in the bag for a few seconds more and yanked out a semi-automatic nine millimeter.

The loud, long string of curses she let out as she checked the rest of the bag wasn't very reassuring.

"Damn it to hell! I've only got one clip left!" Another few choice four letter words followed before a look of resolve passed over her features, "DAMN IT ALL!"

Jimmy spotted the glint of sliver in the rearview mirror (or rather, what was _left_ of the rearview mirror) and jerked the steering wheel in automatic response to seeing the firearm, "What're you going to do?!"

"Something really, _really_ stupid," she replied angrily as she straightened out and pointed the gun out the back window.

Reacting without thinking, Jimmy turned the wheel again, causing her to lose her tremulous balance and be thrown to the side out of harms way, "They'll shoot you!"

"Not if I shoot them first---just keep the damn car steady, Jimmy!" She regained her former position on her knees, "Jimmy! STEADY!"

Another shot rang out, followed by a nasty 'shunk' sound as the bullet collided with the metal of the trunk, "I CAN'T!"

"You've got to!" She was breathing hard, "I've only got one clip and we're moving at mach three with two cars following--Now I'm a good shot, but I'm not _that_ good. I can **probably** take out one of them if you keep the car steady enough for me to hit one of their tires."

It took conscious effort to keep the car going in a straight line for the whole twenty seconds it took for her to empty her gun since Jimmy's foremost instinct was to keep weaving all over the road to keep their pursuers from being able to hit them.

Apparently, though nerve wracking, it was worth it, because a triumphant noise came from the back seat after the nine millimeter was emptied and the sound of screeching tires and a metal on glass on metal crash came from behind them.

"Hell yeah!" Came her shout that was equal parts mocking and glee, "Try and shoot a House Of The Dead tourney champion, why don't you! I Hope your gas tanks burst into flames, you black suit wearin', Ray Ban sportin', Area Fifty One workin' bastards!"


	17. Chapter 17

If it were at all possible for a man's jaw to unhinge completely and come off his face, John Byers' would have come undone long before he _actually_ laid eyes on the _Stargate_.

Somehow, Kavanagh had arranged it so that the Gunmen could look in on the gate room in relative secrecy with only a few uninterested techs running about.

"It's real," Langly whispered reverently, forgetting all pretense of not being able to speak English, "It's…really, _really_ **real**."

Kavanagh stood off to one side, smugly watching the stunned reactions of the three reporters who had been so quick to dismiss him as a lunatic, "Believe me now? I _told_ you there was a Stargate."

Byers stared at the giant ring, "And this...this thing…this Stargate…it allows travel to other _worlds_?"

"Any planet in the entire galaxy that's got an operational gate on it. _And_ the Pegasus Galaxy if we've got enough power to do it, that is."

Frohike was speechless for several minutes and when he finally _did_ find his tongue, all he could manage was a most eloquent, "Holy crap. I mean…_holy crap_. Holy freaking crap!"

Byers snapped his mouth shut and spoke quietly to the scientist, "How long has the…what is it? Stargate Command? How long has it been running?"

"Ten years."

"How is it that the government has kept this from the public for so long?"

"Who _cares_, Byers?" Frohike asked, "_We_ know about it." The eldest Gunman took a couple of steps back as if to regain his bearings, "This…this is the mother lode. This is the Pulitzer. This is national coverage. This is us on the cover of every major magazine in the country. This is our circulation shooting up a thousand fold…"

The Stargate sprang to life suddenly and the chevrons started encoding as someone dialed in.

Byers tore his gaze from the gate long enough to glance at their guide, "What's happening?"

"Incoming wormhole," Doctor Kavanagh replied carelessly.

It caused the Gunmen to jump violently when the iris opened and a connection was established with an intense WHOOSH and influx of what looked to be bright blue water.

But Kavanagh didn't even flinch.

Frohike blinked rapidly and gulped, "Holy crap."

"You said that already," Langly replied, still not taking his eyes off the gate, which was now an upright shimmering puddle.

"Yeah well, for posterity's sake, I'm sayin' it _again_. **_Holy_ _crap._**"


	18. Chapter 18

Absolutely thunderstruck, the three reporters of The Lone Gunman newspaper were escorted by Doctor Kavanagh to the mess hall where they could sit down comfortably.

Before they _fell _down _uncomfortably_.

In hushed tones, they questioned Kavanagh, practically verbally stepping on each other in their eagerness to learn anything and everything they possibly could about the Stargate, the Gou'ld, the Wraith, the Genii…the gate builders themselves...

There was so much to learn! So many questions to ask! So much secret information to be gleaned from the base's computers!

"No."

"What do you mean 'No'?" Langly asked incredulously after Kavanagh shot down his idea about hacking into one of the databanks to download anything and _everything_ he could get his paws on.

"You'd never be able to penetrate the security codes, for a start," Kavanagh said stiffly.

"But we're _inside_!" Langly said as loudly as possible while still whispering, "This will be a cinch!"

"NO."

Langly crossed his arms over his chest and glared at Kavanagh so hotly that he was in danger of bursting into flames.

"I can get you to the hard copy files...I work in the archives these days _anyway_," Langly could have sworn he heard a touch of bitterness in Kavanagh's voice, "But if you want to avoid detection and _arrest_, you can't touch _any_ of the computers. The security systems that are in place are virtually impenetrable."

"Oh come on…even from the _inside_?"

"_Especially_ from the inside."

"But--" Langly stopped in mid-sentence to stare at a point past Kavanagh's left shoulder. The geek's mouth dropped open and he worked his jaw for a few seconds as he stared.

"What the hell are you gaping at, punk?" Frohike followed the younger man's gaze and did a double take, "Holy hell."

Byers and Kavanagh, seated across from the other two men, shared a puzzled glance and started to turn their heads to look at whatever had caught Langly and Frohike's attention so raptly.

"No! Don't turn around!" Frohike hissed, grabbing the sleeve of Byers lab coat and tugging it until he caught Byers' eye.

"What?" Byers asked in confusion. The look on Frohike's face was _not_ one that was indicative of a positive development, "What _is_ it, Frohike?"

Frohike and Langly shared a glance between them before Langly swallowed thickly.

"It's…Susanne Modeski."

-

A/N: Bow before the queen of the evil cliffhanger! MUAHAHAHA!

(I've had _way_ too much sugar today...does it show?)


	19. Chapter 19

Close to an hour after the initial confrontation between Techie and Kimmy that had resulted in the heated car chase with the Men In Black (or some variation thereof) Jimmy's car pulled up in front of a seemingly deserted warehouse that Techie had directed him to.

"Where are we?" Kimmy asked quietly, staring at the warehouse.

"TAAA safe house," Techie answered, climbing out of the car, "We've got a couple in every state…the three of us lucked out that we were this close to one."

"We were almost killed, how lucky is that?" Kimmy followed her out of the car, Jimmy close behind them as they approached the warehouse.

"Luckier than _actually_ being killed," she snapped before stepping up to the door and pounding on it furiously.

Jimmy took notice of the surrounding area and observed a small security camera and speaker box above them.

"What's the password?"

"Walt sent me," Techie replied quickly.

There was silence from the speaker box followed by a curious, "Techie?"

"Who else would have _that_ as their password?"

Jimmy could hear the amusement in the heavily accented voice coming from the little speaker beneath the security camera, "Back to get thrashed at VTM, eh pet?"

British. Most decidedly British. If Jimmy had known anything about accents he would have pegged it as being Leeds, through and through.

Techie let out a huff, "Not today, Book...this is business. Let us in"

"Us?" came the voice, fraught with disbelief, "Don't tell me you've gone out and found _other_ friends? Techie, you wound me."

She glared at the camera (or at least as best she could from her height), "Lemme in."

"You're angry when you're gorgeous," the voice answered cryptically, sounding altogether amused.

Jimmy spent a moment pondering what that possibly could have meant, since the connotations of 'You're angry when you're gorgeous' are rather vague, but he let it go when he heard Techie grunt with irritation.

"Let. Me. In," Techie ground out, the patience in her voice draining quickly.

"What's the magic word?"

"Eviscerated Englishman."

"Ah, ah, ah," the voice chided, "That's _two_ words."

"Book, you jerk, if you don't let me in I'll-"

"You'll what, make threats outside my door until dawn? My three inch solid _steel_ door?"

"You ponce! You prat! Let me in this instant!"

"Ponce? Prat? You pretentious creature...you've never even been to England. Why don't you call me something with a more American twist to it, hm? Bastard would be fitting in this situation, I should think."

She fumed good naturedly, "Sod! Blighter! Git! That's the one! You're a git! You're a right git and you _know_ it!"

"Never said I wasn't."

"Wanker!" Techie retorted hotly.

A throaty chuckle was her only response and Jimmy found himself smiling in spite of the seriousness of their situation. He wasn't _exactly_ sure what this 'wanker' thing was, but if the shade of puce Techie was turning was any indication, it was meant to be _really_ insulting; not something to be giggled at.

Techie inhaled sharply and blew out a breath.

Uh oh. This must mean the _big_ guns were coming out.

She pointed at the security camera, "You're a Chaotic Good, through and through, Book!"

There was an exaggerated gasp from the speaker box. "Bloody hell woman, you know how to hit a bloke below the belt."

"Wait until we're in the same room." Jimmy heard her mutter darkly.

The voice spoke a knowing "I heard that." and was accompanied by a deafening buzzing noise.

Techie grabbed hold of the door handle and gave it a sharp yank, pulling it open about six inches with effort.

Jimmy, anticipating the trouble she was going to have, grabbed the edge of the door and pulled it open with ease.

She shot him an 'I can do it myself' glare, which he pointedly pretended not to see.

A man a few inches shorter than Jimmy with a shock of hair that was so blonde it was bordering on white was waiting just inside the door with a gun trained on the three of them.

He shook his head and dropped the gun, slipping it into the waistband of his pants, "Once again I am utterly amazed at the fact that my security cameras failed to do you justice. You look like _hell_."

"You're such a boost to my morale, Book. Really."

"Who're they, and what happened to you?" The Englishman asked, glossing over the insulting comment.

"Jimmy Bond and Kimmy Beaumont."

The blonde man gave her a disbelieving look, "You're _kidding_."

"Nope."

The gun was out of his waistband and pointed at the two men within seconds, "I'm assuming the geeky squinty one is the one I should shoot?"

"Knock it off, Book…Kimmy's back on _our_ side. The guys he was working' for almost offed him for saying too much…he's agreed to work for us to take 'em down once and for all." Techie shot Kimmy a dangerous look, "Isn't that right, Kim?"

The geek nodded hurriedly, knowing that between the woman who'd whip him later if he disagreed, there was the more pressing matter of the man with a gun pointed at him.

Techie stepped in front of Kimmy, "Book…"

"Fine. _Fine_." The gun was lowered once more and the blonde man walked across the room to a large table laden with half a dozen laptops and parked himself behind one.

Techie let out a long breath, clearly relieved. "Gentlemen, the trigger happy man you see before you is The Little Black Book."

The blonde man gave a curt nod of his head but started typing as if they weren't there.

"Little Black Book?" Jimmy asked in confusion.

"He's in charge of where all our agents are at any given time...he _knows_ everybody and where to find them...hence: Little Black Book. One of the six founders of T triple A." Techie glanced around, "Speaking of which, where's Oracle?"

"Gone," Book replied, not looking up from his work.

"Gone as in...gone out or gone as in _gone_?"

"Gone as in bought the farm, pet."

"She's...?"

Book nodded solemnly in answer to the unasked question.

"When?"

"Last weekend."

"How?"

"The way our type _usually_ go, poppet."

"The Men In Black?"

"Oddly enough, no. That new organization you've been poking around about...the Trust..._they_ had a hand in this."

Techie looked at Kimmy almost accusingly.

"Alright, Kimmy…I think it's time for a bit of information sharing, don't you? What were you about to tell me before those government clowns started shooting at us?"

Kimmy swallowed thickly.

He didn't want to have to tell her everything he'd learned throughout working for the men at Area Fifty One…

But since they'd already decided he was enough of a liability that they were willing to kill him to keep him quiet and the T triple A was his only hope for staying alive at the moment, it looked like he didn't have much of a choice in the matter.

"I guess I'd better start at the beginning, right?"

"That's the place where stories _usually_ begin, yes."

"Ok, it was in Egypt in…the nineteen twenties, I think it was, that it all started…"


	20. Chapter 20

As Kimmy finished spinning his tale, close to an hour later, the other three occupants of the room were staring at him like he'd grown another head.

Techie, who was leaning against one of the many tables nearby, looked like she was about to fall over. Book sat back in his chair heavily, making it squeak loudly and Jimmy just _gaped_.

They stayed that way for several moments, just processing the information that Kimmy had hit them with.

He'd left nothing out, telling them about everything from the discovery of the Stargate to the expedition to Atlantis.

It was an incredibly large amount of info to take in all at once and as Kimmy waited for someone to say something, he briefly wondered if the three had quietly gone into shock and died on him.

But then Techie took in a huge gulp of air in such a loud gasp that he thought it quite possible she'd swallowed her tongue.

Book was the first to speak. "Bloody bugger! _That_ certainly explains a hell of a lot!"

Kimmy stared at the man he'd come to know as Book in disbelief, "You mean to tell me you actually _believe_ me?"

"Well of course we _believe_ you, you twit." Book turned to stare at Techie intently, "You know what this means, don't you?"

She took a few moments to gather her clearly scattered wits before she gulped again and turned to stare at her compatriot. "If you're thinking what I think you're thinking...you're _insane_. Project Angel was a _rogue_ faction of the MIB, you _know_ that."

Book countered with his voice level and his eyes hard, "Give me one good reason why those Project Angel and The Trust haven't teamed up...look at all the reports we've been getting lately! Everything that _we_ know about meshes with what your little geek here just told us. The pieces fit too perfectly to belong to different puzzles."

Jimmy shot Kimmy a questioning look which was returned with an equally confused expression.

"Book, that's absolutely _mad_! These kinds of people don't work together, regardless of whether or not their objectives are the same!"

"Don't you argue with me, madam, I've been in this business a great deal longer than you have and I--"

"That doesn't mean _anything_! Every Man In Black--regardless of what their motives are--are all the same! They look out for their own interests, you know that! That is their established pattern of behavior!"

"Well...bugger _that!_ It all _fits_!"

Techie looked _very_ flustered and put her head in her hands. "No...no, no, no. I refuse to believe that they're all working in tandem."

"Why _not_, pet?"

"Because if they are, we're royally screwed, that's why." She looked up at Book with her brows knits together and her eyes terrified, "We barely survived going up against the men at Project Angel the _last_ time...it's too horrible to contemplate what we'd be working against if this Trust group has teamed up _with_ PA."

Techie was gnawing on her bottom lip and fidgeting, one foot tapping an unmappable rhythm on the floor, "I can't take this...I'm gonna go...um...where's the shower in this dungeon, Book?"

The blonde man pointed to a point over Jimmy's left shoulder. "Down the hall, to the left and across from the tomb."

The only female in the room nodded and was up and out of her chair so fast that the other occupants barely had time to register that she was gone.

"Suspect she's gone to have a bit of a cry," Book said thoughtfully, once Techie was out of earshot.

The other two men looked slightly uncomfortably with that assessment and Jimmy made quick work of changing the subject, "What's the tomb?"

"S'what we call the weapons storage rooms."

An uneasy silence filled the room and it hung heavily in the air--almost like a tangible presence--until Book cleared his throat noisily.

"I don't suppose either of you are tea drinkers, are you?"

Eager at the chance to cut through the tension, Kimmy nodded quickly and murmured an agreement.

Jimmy did the same.

"Right then...tea. It'll give us all a chance to get better acquainted with one another, won't it?"

"Yeah. You can tell us about the T triple A," Jimmy blurted.

The look Book flashed him made him question his decision about the subject matter of his proposed conversation.

"That story's not one you can tell over tea." Book reached over to a leather jacket which hung on the back of one of the nearby office chairs. He retrieved a small flask from the inside pocket of the jacket and spoke quietly. "That's a tale better told over Scotch."

Book offered the flask to both Jimmy and Kimmy--who both declined it--before yanking off the lid and taking a large gulp of the stuff.

"Way back...'bout six years ago or so, prominent hackers all over the globe started disappearing," Book said soberly. "Not many at first...one here or there...nobody really noticed. After all, hackers have notoriously short life spans..."

Kimmy swallowed thickly and nodded.

"About six months worth of disappearances--think it was almost twenty people all told--somethin' started to reek of foul play to some of us." Book took another swig from his flask. "Six of us, to be precise. Me, Orchid, Black Widow, Oracle, 327 and your buddy in the bathroom in there."

The storyteller got up from his seat and moved around one of the numerous tables laden with computers and various other bits of technology. "We found each other by accident...all of us following the same clues about the same disappearances...we figured six heads were better than one..."

Book looked troubled momentarily before he shrugged. "We got together...formed a group...and found out what was goin' down with our missing comrades."

"Project Angel," Kimmy muttered anxiously.

Book winked. "Right you are. Project Angel...Project Angel was a secretly funded program--part of whatever goes on at Area Fifty One these days--which involved brainwashing hackers and using them. At first, they were used for their technical skills...hacking into data caches for the Men In Black...covert ops...stuff like that."

The blonde man ran a hand through his hair. "But things went downhill...the chemical brainwashing techniques that were used on the captive hackers slowly wore away their minds. The guys at PA hadn't done enough research...or else they didn't care that they were exposing their little test subjects to something like _acid_. It burned away who they were...left them...well, not themselves, let's put it that way."

"When we found out--us six, that is--we...did something incredibly foolish." Book smirked bitterly. "We went after them. Took almost three years but we finally put those bastards out of business."

"They returned the favor six months later," Techie's voice rang from behind them. "Widow turned on us."

"Whether it was of her own free will or if she was brainwashed into it, we still don't know." Book shot Techie a warning glare. "And don't try vilifying her either."

Techie's mouth, which had been open and clearly ready to retort something nasty, snapped shut with an audible click.

"Either way the T triple A...The Anti-Angel-Association--" At the looks that both Kimmy and Jimmy gave him, Book sighed loudly. "We didn't have _time_ to come up with something catchier..."

"Regardless of the name, we got shut down quite effectively." Techie put in. "We only reformed about eight months back...when people started disappearing again."

"Scientists this time," Book muttered. "It's not Project Angel...at least, not in the incarnation that _we_ knew it, but the various bits of information that have been uncovered recently--both for your Gunmen friends and through our own independent searches--I think there's a connection. And now with the information you've given us, Kimmy...the SGC, The Trust...well, it certainly _fits_ doesn't it? This Trust group is looking for info on the AH gas..which was a part of Project Angel's preliminary experiment."

"Someone from the _old_ project is clearly involved with this new endeavor...else they wouldn't have tapped _you_, Kim, to be their man on the inside. Think about it...brainwashing...being able to plant a bomb in the form of a human being...one that's just waiting to go off at the right moment in the right time to accomplish whatever goals these people have. Programmed, if you will, to go postal at a crucial moment."

Techie visibly shuddered. "If Book's right and the guys from PA are involved in _any_ capacity..."

"Your buddies have just sauntered inside the biggest ticking time bomb this side of the apocalypse. One that's ripe to go off without warning."


	21. Chapter 21

Jimmy was out of his seat and waving frantically very, _very_ suddenly. "We've got to go help the guys!"

Book looked at Jimmy like he'd completely taken leave of his senses and Techie just buried her head in her hands forlornly.

"What are you standing around for?" Jimmy exclaimed, grabbing his coat off the back of his chair. "We have to get going!"

"Are you _insane_?" Kimmy asked incredulously. "Was I the only one who saw what those MIB guys did to your _car_?"

"I don't care! The guys _need_ us!"

"To hell with _that_!" Kimmy replied angrily, standing up. "I've been almost killed enough for one night, thank you very much! Techie, back me up here!"

The two men were so busy arguing that it took several minutes for them to realize that Techie and Book were whispering back and forth, their own conversation just as heated, if not as loud, as the one that Jimmy and Kimmy were involved in.

The two TAAA agents became aware of the sudden silence and turned to look at the other two occupants of the room who were currently giving them suspicious stares.

Jimmy squinted at Techie and Book appraisingly. "What aren't you telling us?"

Techie's eyes got big behind her glasses. "What makes you think there's something we're withholding from you?"

"Because you _are_." Jimmy crossed his arms over his chest and _glared_.

Book looked at him oddly. "You're sharper than you look, chap."

Jimmy's demeanor didn't change at all. "So what _aren't_ you telling us?"

Techie cleared her throat awkwardly. "Well...the thing of it is...we can't just go wandering into Cheyenne Mountain." She nodded towards Kimmy. "Me and Kimmy especially. He's already on the MIB's hit list...and my hack's got me on there too, in addition to that fancy shootin' I did back in Kansas."

"So? I'll go alone if I have to."

"I take it back," Book said with a sigh. "You _are_ an idiot."

"Look Jimmy, I know you _think_ you can handle this on your own, but you _can't_ just rush into Cheyenne Mountain with guns blazing and hope to live through the encounter." Techie turned to stare at Book, "How long has it been since you've gone on a covert op, Book?"

A smile slowly spread across Book's face, causing the corners of his eyes to wrinkle. "Far _too_ long, pet."

"That's what I thought." Techie grinned. "We can tap another agent to go with you two...I don't like sending just two of you in there."

"What about you and Kimmy?"

"I'll drag his ass to a safehouse, get him set up with a new identity, the usual." She ran a hand through her hair, "About time I did the same as well. The only question is, who do we tap to go _with_ you?"

Book didn't hesitate. "327."

Techie looked like she was going to be sick before she swallowed loudly. "Can we _really_ trust 327 with _this_?"

"He's one of the founders."

"He's reckless." She squawked.

Book leveled his eyes at Techie, "You're not?"

Techie had one finger up and was about to make a valid argument before she paused and dropped her hand. "Ok, so you've got a point."

"Besides, since you're already on their radar, poppet, I can't think of anyone _better_ than 327 to take your place." Book saw that Techie was preparing to protest, so he cut her off, "And you _know_ you can trust 327. He may be reckless, he may be mildly psychotic, but he's _loyal_."

"So was Widow, right up until she tried to _kill_ us," Techie answered bitterly. "But...if you _really_ want 327...I'll call him while you set yourself up with some weapons and tech." She jerked her head at Jimmy. "Give him a crash course in the fine art of high caliber weapons and get packin'."

-

A/N: Yay. No more writing Techie from here on out. YAY! YAYAYAYAYAY!

You know, most authors get upset when they write their Mary-Sue/Author Insert out of a story...I'm just _relieved_.

Next chapter, we _finally_ catch up with the Gunmen again.

Show me the love.


	22. Chapter 22

Inside one of the many guest rooms on base at the SGC, John Byers say on the bed he'd been provided with for his stay, looking unbelievably shell shocked.

Langly and Frohike had kept their distance, but that didn't stop them from looking on, worried about their friend's mental state.

They'd escorted the near catatonic Byers to his new quarters after he'd clapped eyes on the form of Susanne Modeski, knowing that he was just in shock and needed some time to come back to himself. But the moment they reached the guest quarters, the silence had been unbearable.

Byers just stared off into space, clearly trying to work through his muddled thoughts, leaving the other two men to fill the heavy silence.

Frohike, true to form, was the first to speak. "You alright there, buddy?"

Byers didn't answer, just stared straight ahead.

The other two reporters exchanged worried glances.

"Byers?" Langly ventured, going so far as to shake him by the shoulder. "Yo, Earh to--"

"I don't understand," Byers said suddenly, his voice barely above a whisper. "I just...don't _understand_." He buried his head in his hands forlornly.

"I thought she was _dead_." He looked back at his friends, eyes full of some unnamed emotion. "She never came back..never called...it's been _years_. I thought--"

"It wouldn't be the first time she--OW!"

Frohike smacked Langly on the back of the head reproachfully. "Have some tact, will you, Langly?"

"I was just statin' a fact, old man," Langly defended, rubbing the back of his head. "She's screwed us over more times and I can count. Is it any surprise she's workin' for _them_ again?"

"Langly, so help me I'm going to stuff a pillow down your throat if you don't shut your trap."

"He's right, Frohike."

"What?" Frohike turned to stare at Byers. "Sorry, I seem to be suffering from auditory hallucinations...did you just _agree_ with Langly? Did you just say he's _right_ about something?"

"He _is_," Byers stated flatly.

Frohike looked between Byers and Langly oddly. "You two agreeing on something...I suppose stranger things have happened, though I can't think of any off the top of my head at the--"

Byers stood, ignoring Frohike. "I need to talk to her."

"No, man, don't." Langly placed a hand on Byers' chest to stop him in mid-stride. "Last thing we need is for you to go running after some skirt who could out us."

Byers pushed Langly's hand away. "Stay here then, but I _have_ to talk to her."

With that, Byers stormed out of the guest room, the door slamming so hard behind him that the other Gunmen thought it might come of its hinges.

There was another shared glance between Langly and Frohike.

Langly jerked his head in the direction of the door. "All for one?"

"Damn it all." Frohike sighed. "Fine. Let's go make sure he doesn't get his ass kicked."


	23. Chapter 23

With Langly and Frohike hot on his heels, Byers blindly started in the direction of the mess hall, not really seeing where he was going, only narrowly avoiding running into several people on instinct alone. This was single minded determination such as he'd never known in all his life as he headed for the last known location of the woman whose face had haunted his dreams for the past several years.

The simple band of gold that Susanne had left in his hand in Las Vegas oh so long ago had taken up residence in one of his pockets; a metal promise that had yet to be realized.

He figured that she must've been dead to have remained off the radar this long, and while that thought pained him, the idea that she was alive and well but had just neglected to contact him, hurt even _worse_.

And now she wasn't in the mess hall.

"Byers!" Langly hissed after the wayward reporter, trying to capture his attention without gathering the notice of everyone in the vicinity.

Sadly, the effort was to no avail.

Byers just kept going. He was like a human seeking missile. He would _not_ be thrown off his path on the search for Susanne Modeski. He wove through a crowd of people that were seemingly gathered in the middle of nowhere for no reason (well, not nowhere; it was a large empty storage room of some sort that he was working his way through), searching for any hint of blonde that he could spot.

Brunette, brunette, redhead, redhead, redhead, platinum blonde, brunette…

Damn it. Where _was_ she? Come hell or high water, he wasn't going to let her go now that he'd finally found her again…

He pressed through the mass of people in lab coats and military gear, sidestepping several crates that were spread amongst the room inhabitants, still scanning for Susanne's slight form.

Langly and Frohike were having a harder time of it than Byers was. Either because of his determination or because the crowd seemed to get even more tightly packed as the seconds passed, making the going even slower for them.

Amongst the throng of people, they lost Byers momentarily, before finding him in the crowd (Langly had to hop up and down to see the brown hair in the midst of at least a dozen different heads) as he made his way out into yet _another_ corridor.

Frohike was about to call out to his friend when something happened that made the word die on his lips.

With a sudden flash of bluish light, the two Gunmen found the landscape around them had changed out of the blue, leaving them and the group they were crammed in with, in an unfamiliar location.

Everyone _else_ seemed to have expected this turn of events and they started milling about, doing whatever tasks they were supposed to, but Frohike could only manage to try and regain his bearings for a second before Langly grabbed him by the arm so hard it was painful and jerked his head at something little and gray across the room.

The eldest Gunman adjusted his glasses so that the world was back in focus and saw the gray blob morph into a distinctly alien-like shape before his eyes.

It seemed that temporarily misplacing Byers was to be the _least_ of Langly and Frohike's problems.

They both stood frozen on the spot and Frohike managed the first exclamation between them, a mere whisper beneath the babble and chatter around them, but heard by his companion none-the-less.

"Holy _crap_."

"You've been saying that a lot lately."

"I've been _meaning_ it a lot lately."


	24. Chapter 24

It might have been divine providence or it might have been sheer, blind, dumb _luck_ but nobody seemed to notice the two extra people who'd been beamed aboard the Daedelus. They did blend in rather well with the throng of scientists in their pristine white coats and everyone seemed to be too busy picking up various crates of supplies to pay much attention to them specifically.

Besides, years of working on the outskirts of society, breaking rules and trying to stay out of trouble gave them an edge. They knew _how_ to blend in when they had to.

And right now, that **had** to.

A soldier bumped into Langly but he kept his adopted air of disaffected cool, merely stepping aside to allow the man to pass.

"Ladies and gentlemen," a voice came from the front of the little room, heavy and authoritative. "Welcome to the Daedelus. I'm Colonel Caldwell."

Langly stood on tip-toe and caught a glance of the man who was talking.

"Holy freaking--oh, wait, never mind."

"What?" Frohike hissed. "_What_?!"

"I thought he was Skinner for a second," Langly whispered back.

"Oh _that's_ **just** what we need. You _hallucinating_."

Caldwell continued, unaware of the two Gunmen and their whispered conversation. "If you'd follow your department heads, they'll give you your quarters assignments and give you the rundown of what to expect. We've had a few minor changes in plan since you were briefed, due to an attack on Atlantis by the Wraith."

"Atlantis?" Frohike mouthed.

"_Wraith_?" Langly mouthed back.

Someone near Caldwell that Langly couldn't see spoke. "If I might have the attention of the science staff, please?"

The lab coat set, which was made up of at _least_ twenty people, seemed to squeeze in tighter together, pushing towards the voice.

"Doctor Lee is waiting for you all in lab three. If you'd follow me?"

Langly and Frohike didn't have much of a choice, to be frank, what with the crowd propelling them forward whether they liked it or not, so they went with the flow, all the way out of the little room they'd been transported into and down several corridors, glancing nervously at each other all the while.

The crowd pushed into a room together, Frohike and Langly doing their best to stay near the back in case they needed to make a hasty retreat and the people spread out somewhat, giving the two Gunmen a clear view of Doctor Lee, who had started talking about Ancient technology and the recent strike on Atlantis.

Frohike didn't seem to be listening…in fact, all he could do was let his eyes go wide as saucers behind his glasses. His voice came out in a choked whisper and he ducked behind Langly enough to hide himself from view. "Shit."

Langly took a fleetingly look at him. "Moved up a notch from 'holy crap'?"

"Shut _up_, punk." Frohike snuck another look at the short man in a lab coat who seemed to be in charge of organizing the troops. "God, I _never_ thought I'd see him again."

"Who?"

"_Bill._"

"That's not very helpful, Frohike."

"My brother."

"You have a brother? Since _when_?"

"Half brother, technically…and we don't talk. At all. Ever. We...had a falling out in the seventies."

Frohike tugged his companion's sleeve, pulling him back into the more crowded corridor before he picked up the pace and made as mad a dash he could without breaking into a run, trying to find somewhere he could duck inside.

Nobody spared them a second look; there were people in lab coats as far as the eye could see, mixed in with a fair amount of military types. That was probably the only thing they had going for them as they strolled, trying to look nonchalant and doing a passable job of it.

The mess hall was the only doorway that Frohike found that was open and the place was pretty empty--pretty empty being there were only about a dozen souls in it all told at that particular moment.

Frohike jerked his head at a somewhat secluded corner near a long line of windows and Langly followed him, trying to keep his eyes from wandering to the expanse of black outside that was littered with stars.

"Langly…"

"I know, I know, space ship, little gray aliens, outer space. 'Holy freaking crap'."

"We've gotta get out of here."

The ship lurched suddenly and Langly's eyes got wide as he stared out the observation window.

The blue that was streaming past them didn't look promising…it was too sci-fi-ish to be anything but trouble.

The blonde geek had turned a bright shade of white and gulped loudly. "I don't think that's an option, Frohike."


	25. Chapter 25

As Byers hunted the SGC for Susanne Modeski and Frohike and Langly quietly panicked about the fact they were on a spaceship on their way to God knows where, Jimmy and Book were saying their goodbyes to Techie and Kimmy in the middle of a dark parking garage where they were awaiting the arrival of a man known only as '327'.

Techie was glancing back and forth between Book and the rest of the garage. "Are you _sure_ you've got everything?"

"Pet, you're my partner, not my wife, stop fussing over me," he replied somewhat fondly. "We'll be _fine_."

She put her hands on her hips and _glared_ at him. "You're heading up against MIB, Book. 'Fine' isn't the word that comes to mind when they're involved in _any_ scenario."

"I'm not the one who'll be traveling with a fugitive that they want to get their hands on, poppet," Book glanced at Kimmy before leaning closer to Techie and lowering his voice. "If worse comes to worse and it comes down to him or you..."

"I know, I know, shoot the geek in the head."

"Hey!" Kimmy exclaimed, scandalized. "'The geek' is standing right here!"

"Oh hush up," Techie replied, shaking her head at Kimmy. "I offered you protection and protection you'll get. Sheesh, can't even take a joke."

SCRREEEECH.

All four people in the garage looked up suddenly to see a car--a classic in design, if they weren't mistaken--screeching around the next turn and coming to a rather noisy stop. The driver piled out and immediately lit a cigarette before he approached the little group, huffing and puffing away.

He was a good deal shorter than Book and Jimmy--only about as tall as Techie was--with a mop of unruly, slightly greasy looking black hair and his skin was so dark it spoke of many hours spent in the sun. 327's eyes were slanted and dark, _dark_ brown, with a sort of light behind them when they landed on the four others in the garage.

"Switchblade," Book nodded at the driver.

"At your service, Book, my man," the driver gave a curt nod to Techie in acknowledgement. "Tech. Now that we've got the formalities out of the way, I suggest we get a move on." He looked between Kimmy and Jimmy. "Am I takin' the dork or the jock?"

"Jock," Techie answered. "Dork's with me."

"Fine. Wish we could all stay and chat, but I got a schedule to keep, yeah?" 327 discarded his cigarette. "So I'll catch you at the next TAAA staff meetin'."

Kimmy snorted. "Staff meeting indeed."

"Get your goodbyes over with, I'll move the equipment." 327 turned and grabbed one of the three steel suitcases that was sitting near the small cluster of people and started back to his car. "And make it fast!"

Book and Kimmy shook hands, as Techie grabbed hold of Jimmy's.

She pressed a small item into his hand, which had obviously been tucked up her sleeve as she shook hands with him. Jimmy looked at her in confusion after glancing at the small flat plastic capsule.

Techie put her hand on his, closing his fingers over the item to conceal it.

"Don't ask what it is or what it's for, Jimmy, just guard it with your life." She said in a low voice, so that only he could hear her over the roar of 327's engine. "Ordinarily, I'd give it to Book or 327 but…well, I trust them both, really I do, but they both have the tendency to be kinda…wild. Switchblade especially. If he starts acting up…just…be _careful._"

"I will."

"Good. Take care of yourself, Jimmy," she smiled at him for half a second. "You've kinda grown on me, you big dope…I'd hate to have to kick your ass for dyin' on me."

Jimmy tucked the diminutive piece of plastic in one of his pockets and he watched as Book and Techie just gave each other a nod and clasped hands briefly.

"End of the line."

"Until the next one, anyways."

"Stay alive."

"Doubly so for you, pet."

She grinned mirthlessly. "I'll do my best."


	26. Chapter 26

The interior of 327's 1972 Dodge Challenger was nothing spectacular, and Jimmy should know. He'd been studying it for the past twenty minutes as the car shot like an interference blue hued bullet down the highway at top speed. It was better to focus on the tear in the ceiling's fabric than to try and look out the window at the scenery that was whizzing past so quickly that every tree, bush and road sign bled into each other as one humungous blur.

Staring at the ceiling also helped keep Jimmy's mind off the fact that they were going at about ninety miles and hour and he didn't have a seatbelt on. He was just one particularly quick stop away from being propelled forward into the back of Book's seat and breaking his neck.

Book, of course, wasn't surprised about the fact that Jimmy had decided to brace his arms against the back of his seat, and although the added pressure on his spine wasn't all that pleasant, he could hardly complain…especially considering the fact he had his _own_ hands braced against the dashboard to keep him from flying through the windshield in the event of a sudden, abrupt halt.

327 seemed to be the only one who wasn't bothered in the least by the speed he was going, and he slouched, one hand on the wheel with a fresh cigarette clutched in it, and the other hand on the driver's side window frame.

Ninety miles an hour and the only person who was relaxed about it was the driver. Who just so happened to be the only person with a seatbelt…

That wasn't the most comforting thing in the world.

Neither was the fact that 327 kept talking as if he _weren't_ breaking every traffic law known to man _and_ every time he puffed his way through one cigarette, he let go of the wheel long enough to light a fresh one and pop it in his mouth, all while maintaining his breakneck speed.

The third time he did it, Book finally lost his cool and shouted at him. "Keep your sodding hands on the damn wheel, you fool!"

327 glanced at Book with a smirk and purposely left his hands _off_. "Look ma, no hands."

"God! Now I remember why Techie hates working with you! You're a bleeding whack job!"

"No worse than you are, Bookie," 327 replied, quirking one eyebrow at the blonde man in the passenger seat. "Besides, we're making _excellent_ time."

"Time? TIME?! Making excellent time doesn't much matter if we're _dead_ before we reach our destination! WATCH THE ROAD!"

Two headlights had popped up over the hill that was in front of the three travelers, and those two headlights belonged to a rather imposing looking semi-truck, which was honking its horn as it barreled towards the Challenger.

Jimmy paled, Book blanched and 327...327 slammed on the brakes.

Or rather, he _tried_ to slam on the brakes. His foot connected with the pedal, but there was no sudden stop that accompanied the action.

"Don't do this to me baby, don't you dare!" 327 slammed his foot down once more. Twice. Three times. "Hell!"

"WHAT?!"

"The brake lines have been cut," 327 said in a rather pained and panicked voice. "She was bein' twitchy earlier, and I thought somethin' might've been wrong, but _now…_"

The semi was still coming, and what's more, it wasn't slowing down…_and_ it was driving down the center line of the road, making it impossible to switch lanes to get out of the way.

Whoever this was, they weren't in any mood to avoid the oncoming collision. Indeed, it seemed that crushing the Challenger and its occupants was their primary concern.

"TUCK AND ROLL!"

**Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!**

Without thinking, Jimmy flung his door open and threw himself out of the still moving Challenger, landing on the blacktop painfully, scraping off some of the skin on his hands and knees as he rolled away from the highway and into a wet ditch on the side of the road with a soggy sounding thud. The water smelled like rancid meat and mud clung to Jimmy's clothes as he struggled to get to his feet.

He heard the screech of the Semi's brakes finally kicking in, followed by a gloriously loud smashing sound that came with shattering glass and crunching metal as the Challenger collided with the front of the semi and was crushed beneath its eighteen wheels like a tin can.

The ground shook and a bright orange flare blinded Jimmy for several seconds after he raised his head and the angry scream of metal on tarmac, like nails on a chalkboard echoed through the darkness. The semi had turned itself over and was sliding along the road like a leaf being blown across a sidewalk, sparks springing up beneath the huge metal vehicle, before it finally came to a stop and went up in a huge towering inferno that exploded seemingly out of nowhere, forcing a rush of burning hot air at Jimmy's face so intense he felt his skin was going to get singed off. The sheer strength of the explosion blew Jimmy down--literally--flinging him backwards into the rank pool of dingy water and leaves again.

He lay there for several seconds, just breathing heavily and blinking, trying to process what the hell had just happened, wondering if he was still alive or if he was just imagining the way his chest heaved and stung with every breath in.

Damn, that felt like a broken rib.

Both 327 and Book, bruised and bleeding, stomped over to where Jimmy was and dragged him up off the ground none too gently. Only when he squawked as one of them touched the side of his torso and made the broken rib shift painfully did they let him go.

All three of them were covered in dirt and grime and blood, and they looked on at the burning semi and the ruins of the Challenger that was strewn all over the highway in pieces in stunned horror, Jimmy slightly hunched and holding his side; Book wiping the blood from his eyes that was dripping from a rather nasty looking wound on his forehead with his shirt and 327 hanging onto his left arm, which seemed to be hanging at an unnatural angle as though it was out of place.

"Jesus," 327 said from around a cough as he hung onto his dislocated arm and surveyed the automotive carnage before him. "Who in the hell did you piss off? This is…this is…"

"This is Project Angel at its best, that's what this is," Book replied, trying to catch his breath. "If I wasn't sure it was them before, I'm absolutely _positive_ now."

"Why? Why did they do _this_? There are more effective ways to kill us than sending a suicide semi-truck!" 327 exclaimed. "Why cut the brake lines and give us ample time to get out of the car?"

"To make certain you were delivered into my hands efficiently," a feminine voice answered from behind the three battered men who all turned to look at the woman who stood almost ten feet away from them, next to a silver Mercedes Benz.

Jimmy's eyes bugged out and his jaw dropped so far he thought that maybe it would hit his shoes.

"_Yves_?"


	27. Chapter 27

Langly sat down heavily on one of the mess hall chairs in one of the more shadowy corners of the room, looking at Frohike oddly.

"I can't get over it. You have a brother. _You_ have a _brother_."

"I heard you the first time," Frohike snapped, staring out the window at the blue streaks of space outside anxiously.

"What _other_ secrets have you been keeping, Frohike?" Langly asked in an accusing hiss.

"_What_?" Frohike turned to glare at his companion. "This wasn't a secret."

"Well what the hell _was_ it then?" Langly folded his arms over his chest, eyes narrowed at the elder Gunman suspiciously. "I'd call an entire branch of your family tree that I didn't know about a _secret_."

"Damn it, Langly. It never came up! It's not like you and Byers ever _asked_ about my family."

"We didn't think you had one!"

"As far as I'm concerned, I _don't_," Frohike answered shortly. "When I have a falling out with someone, punk, I have a falling out with someone. On a _permanent_ basis."

"How can you just…write it off like that? He's you _brother_, man," Langly replied angrily. "He's flesh and blood! What kind of falling out could you have _possibly_ had that would make you just…cut all family ties that way?"

Frohike also folded his arms over his chest. "He _changed his name_."

The blonde geek gaped. "What…that's _it_?"

"You don't get it, Langly."

"Obviously!"

"Back when he first went in for his PHD, he decided that 'Frohike' wasn't enough of a prestigious name for a fancy shmancy doctor-type to have. So my brother Billy Frohike became Bill Lee." Frohike looked sourly at the other reporter. "Look, me and Bill--we were the last of the line. The very last Frohikes. There _aren't_ any more. I never married, I never had kids, he knew that I most likely never _would_…and still he changed his last name! Out of vanity!"

"And that was enough reason to just…cut him out of your life? Frohike!"

"Our father had _just _died, Langly, it was a big deal!"

"When's the last time you talked to him?"

"Nineteen seventy one."

"I don't _believe_ you, Frohike!" Langly hissed. "You wanted Byers to reconcile with his old man, didn't you? You tried to push him into it more than once after the scenario 12-D incident…you wanted _him_ to mend fences, but you had _this_ skeleton lurking in your closet? You hypocrite!"

"Oh, would you just stop it? You're not the poster boy for family harmony yourself, Langly _and_ we have bigger problems to deal with than the soap opera that is my family history!" Frohike exclaimed angrily before he leaned forward on the mess hall table and glared at Langly. "In case you haven't noticed, we're on a space ship, headed for God only knows where, and the only people we know on Earth who actually _care_ that we're missing don't _know_ that we're missing! We haven't got any allies, there's a guy in our general vicinity who could blow our cover if he spots me, and all we've got is each other. I'll beat your brains in when we're out of trouble and I have _time_ to do so leisurely, Langly, but right now, could we please _focus_ on the problem at hand?"

"And what do you suggest we do, oh he who is so eager to be in charge?"

"We find a computer. We find out where the hell we're headed. We find out _anything_, I don't _care_ what. I don't like the feeling of being dragged around blind without _some_ kind of intel on our side."

"Every piece of tech I've seen here looks _less_ than human-made, Frohike. Sure, there's a few similarities, but most of it looks totally alien," Langly replied seriously, his brow furrowing into a series of deep creases. "Even if we _do_ find a way to hack into their stuff, there's no telling if we'll know what we're doing…and I don't want to accidentally set off a self-destruct thingamajiggy because I can't read Romulan or the language of whatever the hell species built this thing."

"Langly, are you a hacker, or are you a hacker? Binary code is the one thing that _everyone_ can understand…isn't that what they put on space probes? Just in case someone comes along and finds them? Everyone speaks computer! Even aliens! And if anyone can figure this stuff out, I _know_ it's you."

Langly glanced back up at Frohike before a shrewd look came over his features. "Only if you say it."

"What?" Realization dawned and Frohike pursed his lips. "Almost twenty years later, I can't believe you're _still_ holding that over my head."

"_Say. It_."

"_Fine, _you little egomaniac." Frohike went a little bit red and he scrunched up his face. "Your Kung Foo is the best."

"If I live to be a hundred, I will _never_ get tired of hearing that," Langly said as he got up from his seat and tugged on the lapels of his lab coat. "Let's get to work, doohickey."

Frohike also got up, though he glared at the geek next to him rather than straightening his coat. "One of these days, I'm going to kick your ass for that, Langly."

Langly shrugged and sauntered towards the mess hall exit. "If you haven't done it by now, you never will."

"Shows what you know," Frohike muttered as he started after Langly, "I'm just biding my time like any good tactician would."


	28. Chapter 28

When dealing with conspiracies, one must remember that almost _nothing_ is as it appears. Indeed, conspiracy theorism (and journalism) is one of the few professions where "Appearances can be deceiving" isn't so much an adage as it is a cold hard fact. After more than a decade in this line of work, that was something Byers knew _very_ well. Never trust your eyes; never trust your ears--trust only the facts that you yourself dig up, which can be backed up and confirmed by at _least_ three different independent sources.

Sadly, in the heat of sudden emotion, this was something that Byers had completely forgotten. Susanne Modeski always had that effect on him. One glimpse of that blonde and everything else--all the common sense information his head held beforehand--just flew right out of his mind, to be replaced and overcome by old feelings that were best left buried.

It took him almost an hour of covertly searching every room he came across, but finally, in an abandoned lab, he found her, hunched over a microscope with one hand wrapped around a pen, scratching notes on a notepad, completely absorbed in her work.

Byers' heart caught in his throat when he saw her and he paused in the doorway, overcome with apprehension and a sense of dread. Sure, he wanted to talk to her, but did he dare? What kind of reaction would he get if he spoke up now? Would she call for security? Would she...

No, the idea of her running into his arms was absolutely insane. The ring she'd given him probably didn't mean anything to her anymore…it _had_ been almost ten years sense he'd seen her last and they'd made a silent promise to each other in the middle of the Nevada desert. Though his feelings for her hadn't changed, he couldn't say the same for her for certain.

Well, there was only one way to find out, wasn't there?

Byers stepped into the laboratory fully and gently shut the door behind him with a soft click.

Susanne shifted subtly, making it known that she was aware of the fact she was no longer alone in the room, but she didn't move beyond that initial stirring.

Byers cleared his throat a little bit louder than was absolutely necessary, but still she didn't look up.

There was a chance that she was simply staying the way she was because she was already expecting someone, or because she was mapping out strategically what she was going to do next in case she _wasn't_ expecting anyone.

Swallowing a lump in his throat, Byers took one step forward and spoke softly. "Hello, Susanne."

She stiffened at the sound of his voice, her spine visibly straightening as she took in a shuddering breath.

Susanne turned to face him and he watched an entire catalog of emotions flitter across her face. Surprise registered first, followed by relief and then something that Byers couldn't identify. It was as though she couldn't believe what she was seeing.

"John?" She asked in a strangled whisper, standing up and taking two steps towards him, almost apprehensive. "_John_? Is it…is it really _you_?"

"It's really me."

She continued walking towards him, hesitantly reaching out a hand as if she needed to see if he was solid or not and when her fingers touched his lab coat, she froze for a second before throwing herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck as though she would float away if she didn't hold on as tightly as she could.

"I thought I'd never see you again," she sighed into his ear, sounding as though she might burst into tears any second.

Byers' arms enfolded themselves around her and drew her close against his chest. "Susanne, I--"

"AHEM!"

Byers' eyes slid shut for a moment before he loosened his grip on Susanne and drew back away from her to find Doctor Kavanagh standing in the doorway with his arms crossed over his chest and his foot tapping impatiently.

"I do so _hate_ to break up this little reunion," Kavanagh said, glaring between Susanne and Byers disapprovingly. "But we have problems."

"Problems?" Byers asked, confused. "We haven't been discovered, have we?"

"Not exactly." Kavanagh huffed angrily. "They're both _gone_."


	29. Chapter 29

Though Jimmy's reaction to the appearance of the woman he knew only as Yves Adele Harlow was relatively subdued, his companions reacted in a much more violent manner.

"_You_," Book growled angrily, swinging an accusatory finger up to point at the woman who was standing over them, smiling smugly. "Widow. Should've known you'd have been behind this, you worthless strumpet."

Her smile didn't falter at the insult. "Nice to see you too, Book." She tilted her head at 327 condescendingly in acknowledgement. "Switchblade."

"Widow, you bitch! I'm going to _kill_ you!" 327 started forward, intent on attacking, but Yves' positively deadly look stopped him cold in his tracks.

Well, that and the nine millimeter she withdrew from a holster and pointed directly at his head.

"You were saying?"

327 dropped his hands and opted to glare at her as she smiled serenely again. "You really ought to learn to keep your temper, Switchblade; those sudden spikes in blood pressure can kill you, you know."

"Something tells me high blood pressure is the least of my problems," 327 replied, venom positively dripping from every syllable.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry," Yves answered, "I've no intention of killing you here unless I absolutely _have_ to…so try and keep my options open and don't do anything stupid, hm?"

"_Yves_," Jimmy repeated, still dumbfounded as he tried to wrap his head around what he was seeing. Last time he checked, he and Yves were on speaking terms. Friendly terms, even. This wasn't like her at all. "What are you doing here? And why do they keep calling you Widow?"

"I'm here to stop you three from doing something extremely foolish." She smirked without any warmth in her expression at all. "And they keep calling me Widow because I _am_ Widow…or I was, at one point."

"You were a part of the TAAA?"

"One of the _founders_."

"Yeah right up until she sold us out to the MIB!" Book ground out, gnashing his teeth in indignation.

"That's old news, Book," Yves answered, sounding somewhat bored with the subject. "I'd have thought you'd be over it by now. It _was_ almost three years ago."

"You sold all our information to the highest bidder! You almost killed us!"

"A girl has to eat."

"And buy a new Mercedes every year," Book snapped, glaring between the car and the woman before him.

"Oh for heavens' sake, Book, that's neither here nor there. We have more important business to discuss, gentlemen." The smile returned, more unsettlingly unnatural than it had been before. "However, I think we should first move this little conference to somewhere a bit less…tactically vulnerable. Get in the car."

"Why should we?" 327 asked belligerently, narrowing his eyes hatefully at Yves.

BANG!

A smoking hole in the ground went a long way towards convincing them to take her directions to heart.

"Make no mistake, Switchblade, I have no trouble killing you here--I'd just rather not leave something for the highway clean-up people to deal with. But if you insist in forcing my hand…"

"Alright, alright. We'll cooperate."

The three men started up the embankment towards the Benz, hands up, signifying their surrender to the inevitable.

Yves remained calm and passive as they made their way to her, but when there was roughly three feet between them, she ordered them to halt.

"Book, Switchblade--your weapons."

"What weapons?" They asked in unison.

Another shot rang out.

"Don't try my patience, boys I'm _not_ in the mood to play games. Drop your weapons, or I'll drop _you_."

Book and 327 exchanged a meaningful glance (which was completely lost on Jimmy, but obviously implied something very important to _them_) before they reached for their weapons--Book, a magnum and 327, five different switchblades in a variety of sizes--and dropped them on the asphalt road.

Yves looked pleased with Book, but she quirked an eyebrow at 327. "Only five, Switchblade? Isn't it customary for you to carry _seven_?"

He didn't respond in any way until she tacked on: "One for each sin?"

_That_ earned her a "God, how badly I wish you were on fire right now" glare and a resigned sigh as 327 leaned over and retrieved two more knives, one from each of his cowboy boots, and they landed alongside the others. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic. You're such _good_ boys with the proper training," Yves replied, sounding like an extremely contented pet owner. "All of you, backseat. Now."

Reluctantly, Book led the way to the car and they all piled inside, trying not to step on each other in the process.

The backseat of this _particular_ Mercedes wasn't very luxurious looking, Jimmy discovered as he crammed himself in with the other two men. The handles on the doors had been ripped out and there was a sheet of glass (bulletproof, one had to assume) separating the front seat from the back. This was a battle ready Benz to be sure.

After Yves slammed the back door shut (which 327 just _had_ to shove his shoulder against, just to test how sturdy it was) she plopped down in the driver's seat and started the engine with a roar.

She glanced over her shoulder at her hostages/passengers, "Everyone comfortable?"

THUMP.

Jimmy jumped six inches in the air at the noise that came from behind him and noted with interest that Yves was the only person who wasn't startled by the sudden sound.

"I wasn't talking to _you_!" She shouted, staring past Jimmy's shoulder.

Thump. Thump! **THUMP!**

"Is there someone in the _trunk_?" Jimmy asked, horrified at the very notion.

"No one of any consequence," Yves replied, shifting in the car into gear and turning the wheel as they did a U-Turn and were off down the highway, going just as fast as 327 had been before their unfortunate run-in with the semi-truck.

Thump. Thump. Thump. Thump.

"Shut up back there or I'll make a point of backing into something!"

The thumping ceased in response to Yves' harsh shout but it did little to quiet Jimmy's nerves.

"First you try to kill us, now you're kidnapping us _and_ you've got someone locked in your trunk." Book looked like he was ready to explode with righteous anger. "Where the bloody hell are you taking us, woman?!

Yves flicked her eyes to the rearview mirror and met the bleach blonde man's gaze intensely. "New Mexico."

-

A/N: You know...I know you're reading. This story is in nine different c2 communities and on over fifty alert lists...you could try and _review_ it for a change of pace.


	30. Chapter 30

Occasionally in life, there are moments that a sixth sense within us seems to _scream_ that there is something inherently _wrong_ going on. Some refer to the feeling by saying "It feels like someone just walked over my grave", due to the inexplicable shiver that spills up your spine as a result. No one knows where it comes from or why it's there, but it _is_ there. Some people believe it's nothing more than a small neurological tremor without any connection whatsoever to extra sensory perception, while still others believe it to be an internal alarm going off, telling you that something is _off_ in the great scheme of things.

Regardless of the supernatural or organic connotations one wishes to connect with the sensation, ever since he had boarded the Daedelus, Doctor Lee had been subjected to that very feeling _constantly_. He simply couldn't shake it. The very beginnings of it had made themselves known when he'd seen Doctor Kavanagh with a recent issue of The Lone Gunman, but the sense of wrongness had increased exponentially, until he was so edgy that he thought he'd seen his brother from the corner of his eye.

Of course, _that_ was completely absurd. He dismissed the very notion immediately. Aside from the fact Melvin wouldn't be caught dead in the same _state_ with Bill if his life depended on it, there was no way in _hell_ he could possibly get aboard the Daedelus. The SGC was one of the most secure military installations on Earth and the idea that Melvin Frohike, of all people, could get past all the security measures put in place by the government, was positively _laughable_.

_Still_, Bill reflected silently as he got all of his new science staff members situated in their new quarters, _if there's anyone who __**could**__ find a way in…_

Doctor Lee shook his head absently, the corner of his upper lip turning upwards as he did so. _No. There's no __**way**_

---

After almost twenty years of living on the outskirts of society doing things that required a certain amount of stealth and skill, Melvin Frohike and Richard "Ringo" Langly were _more_ than well equipped when it came to the fine art of sneaking around without being detected.

The fact that the Daedelus was positively _crawling_ with geeky looking people in lab coats helped them blend in immensely. Consequently, nobody gave them a second glance when they ducked into a room with computers set up stretching as far as the eye could see, mixed in with a good deal of strange, alien technology.

The lab wasn't completely empty, there were two other men in white coats talking quietly in a corner, hunched over a bizarre looking console with green and blue lights scattered across its surface, but the two Gunmen decided that it would raise more eyebrows to turn around and leave than it would to go park themselves at one of the laptops in the room as if they belonged there.

Langly plopped down in one of the dozen or so chairs that were in the lab and Frohike took his place behind him, settling himself so that no one could try to peek over Langly's shoulder without him being aware of it first.

"Make it fast, punk," Frohike said from the corner of his mouth, trying to look like he was doing something _other_ than guarding Langly's back.

The blonde geek's fingers flew over the laptops keys with the ease of years and years worth of practice. "In case you've forgotten, ham hands, _this_ is a fine art."

"Yeah, yeah, and we've already established you're the biggest artiste since Van Gogh, just speed it up."

"You can't rush me if you want it done right," Langly muttered, his eyes adjusting quickly to the intermittent flashes of images and strings of text that flickered across the computer screen.

"I can't rush you, but the military grunts who might pop in here at any minute can."

"Relax, Frohike, I'll be done in a--hell."

"Done in a _hell_?"

"Look." Langly tapped on the laptop's screen and Frohike's eyes snapped to where he pointed.

A large image which seemed to be nothing more than a field of black scattered with little white and blue dots was what Frohike saw, with a bright neon green line spreading from one end of the image to the other.

"This is our charted course…and that--" Langly clicked on one of the dots towards the left hand side of the screen, causing that part of the image to enlarge, "is our destination."

Frohike leaned forward, squinting at the tiny letters that were beneath the little blue dot.

Frohike removed his glasses, wiped them on his coat and put them back on his face.

Still there.

He removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes to be certain there were no bits of dirt and grime clouding his vision, returned his spectacles to their place on his nose and looked again.

When Frohike reached for his glasses again, Langly caught him by the wrist, ceasing his movement.

"It's not going to change, Frohike, no matter how many times you wipe your eyes." Langly flicked his gaze back to the screen. "We're going to _Atlantis_."


	31. Chapter 31

Byers stared at Doctor Kavanagh and blinked dumbly a few times, mouth slightly ajar. "Gone?"

"Gone."

Byers stepped back from Susanne, suddenly aware of their proximity and feeling such intimacy didn't need to be witnessed by the likes of Theodore Kavanagh. "What do you mean _gone_?"

"Gone as in _not here_," Kavanagh snapped impatiently. "I would think as a reporter that 'gone' would be a part of your vocabulary already, what with it being such a common word and all."

Byers' jaw clenched and then relaxed as he tried to regain a firm grip on his temper. It was no wonder that Langly had lost it inside the Slope so violently, Kavanagh was the sort of man who knew _just_ which buttons to press to make you want to bash his brains in with the nearest paperweight. "I know what the word _means_, Doctor Kavanagh, I simply don't understand how they could _be_ gone."

"Well they _are_. I've looked everywhere...I even asked--discreetly--if my 'research assistants' were seen by anyone. They've simply vanished."

"They must be here _somewhere_. People don't just vanish."

"That's where you're wrong, Mister Byers, this is the SGC. Strange things are _always_ happening here, from people going 'poof' into thin air to--"

"John..." Susanne's voice was breathy and somewhat anxious and Byers turned to look at her.

"Yes, Susanne?"

She was an unhealthy shade of pale. "John, were they...were they with you when you followed me?"

"They were behind me about...ten feet or so, I believe. Why?"

"God, no." Susanne crossed the room to a computer terminal in the lab and started typing furiously, the worry on her face getting more and more pronounced as the seconds ticked by. "No, no, no, anything but that."

Both Kavanagh and Byers approached behind her, trying to see what she was doing. "What?"

"The Daedelus left a little while ago, bound for Atlantis," she replied, not looking up from the monitor. "I had made my way through the horde that was leaving on my way to the lab...and if you followed _me_, John, and they were following _you_..."

"Oh _God_," Kavanagh exclaimed in horror.

"What? Would someone _please_ tell me what's going on?!"

"John." Susanne turned and grabbed Byers' borrowed lab coat by the sleeves with such force she could have torn the fabric. "John, there's a good chance they were swept up with the rest of the crew that was scheduled to go to the Pegasus galaxy."


	32. Chapter 32

A/N: I know, I know, I haven't updated in a coon's age; I'm writing professionally now (comic book mini-series) so…er…I'm sorry? Don't hurt me?

Also: I promise that both points of view in this story are _vital_ to the plot that is unfolding, you guys just aren't aware of it yet. And remember children, nothing I write is _ever_ as it seems.

-

They drove. And drove. And _drove_. Yet, for every mile that ticked by, Yves remained as stonily silent as ever--revealing no more about her involvement with the three acquaintances turned comrades' current hostage situation.

Jimmy was still trying to piece together why Yves--_his_ Yves--would do something so desperately out of character. Sure, she'd taken advantage of the Gunmen's generous, noble natures in the past, but he thought those days were long gone. This chance in her was so drastic he couldn't even fit the concept in his head.

And that was saying something, considering all the spare room in there.

While Jimmy pondered, 327 kept trying to force the door--wincing every time he jarred his broken arm quite violently; and Book opted to muter things under his breath that were _far_ from being complimentary as he shot the back of Yves' head dirty looks.

There had only been two more thumps from the trunk--both coinciding with Yves hitting potholes and both loud and abrupt enough to give the occupants of the backseat quite a start--but other than that, the trip seemed completely routine, as if they were four (five, counting trunk-person) friends off to Yellowstone for a camping trip or to San Diego for a comic convention.

They went on that way for close to three hundred miles before their happy little routine was upset.

One of the back tires blew out quite spectacularly and Yves was forced to pull over onto the side of the road.

It was when Yves got out to inspect the damage to the aforementioned tire that everything changed.

In the world of covert ops--where men in black and conspiracy theories run rampant--'expect the unexpected' isn't so much an axiom as it is a fact of life; so what came next should have been _expected_.

As Yves' boot hit the pavement, the trunk--which hadn't made a peep for at least a hundred and fifty miles--_burst_ open and the inhabitant practically _fell_ out, landing roughly on her knees.

Several things happened simultaneously then. All three men twisted in their seats to see the other prisoner, Yves drew her gun and the fourth hostage held her hands out in front of herself, clutching something small and black, approximately the size of a tube of lipstick.

It was Techie who had landed on the ground on her knees. Her wrists were bound with cable ties, she'd been roughed up quite a bit and he fingers were bleeding, no doubt from working at the lock of the trunk from the inside…

But worst of _all_ was that Jimmy recognized what the item was in her hands…

And apparently, he wasn't the only one. Book's eyes were bulging.

"Bloody _hell_."

"A dead man's detonator? She's lost her mind!"

Yves held her weapon aimed directly at Techie's head but the other woman didn't flinch.

"You do it Widow, I'll blow us all sky high," she said coldly. "You know I will."

Yves didn't move. "How did you get out of the trunk, you little hellion?"

"Perseverance." Techie jerked her head at Yves' gun hand. "Drop it or I let go of the button."

"I could shoot you."

"I'd still be letting go of the button, you'd still be going boom."

Yves hesitated.

"Fine. You're so confident? Let's see how big of a crater we make, shall we?"

"You might kill me…even yourself…but _not_ your friends."

Techie's face went hard. "Drop the act, Widow. I _know_ one of my 'trusted' associates is a traitor. Other than you, of course."

Though Yves' lips pressed into a thin, grim line, she still bent over enough to lay her gun on the gravel before her. "So you know."

"Kick it over and then let _them_ out." Techie indicated the gun with a nod of her head, then the men in the backseat. Yves did as she was bidden, scowling as Techie _carefully_ put the safety back on the dead man's detonator and picked up the gun--sure to do so as shakily as possible so that the enemy wouldn't try anything.

Jimmy, Book and 327 all exited the car, though Jimmy most definitely did _not_ relax in the least when he saw Techie.

She was breathing hard and she looked somewhat unfocused, what with her glasses being gone and all, but her hands were steady as she kept the gun trained on _Book_. "You complete and utter bastard! They were **waiting** for us!"

Book's eyes went wide as though he was surprised at this statement. "_What_?"

"You betrayed us, Book!" She cocked the hammer on her weapon and through bleary eyes that were threatening to spill tears _glared_ at the Englishman. "First Widow, now _you_!"

"You've gotta believe me, pet--"

"Don't call me that! DON'T EVER CALL ME THAT!" She screeched angrily. "Don't act so nonchalant about this, Book! Kimmy's _dead_ and it's your doing!"

"I didn't--"

Jimmy _saw_ her snap. "Don't **lie** to me, Doyle!"

BANG!

To Jimmy it felt like the entire universe slowed down before his eyes and he saw everything happening at once. Techie's arm jerked from the recoil of the gun, Book jerked backward, eyes wide as a red stain started spreading across his chest. He stumbled backwards for what seemed like an eternity, one of his hands going to cover the wound as he fell.

"I...didn't..."

He hit the ground with a thud and Jimmy felt like someone had dumped ice water down his shirt when he realized the other man was _dead_.

Another explosion of sound erupted and Jimmy spun away from Book's body just in time to see Techie collapsing in much the same manner.

Roughly ten feet behind where she fell, a sleek black car stood in the middle of the road--how it had managed to sneak up on the scene, Jimmy wasn't sure--but considering who was leaning against the vehicle with his gun up, Jimmy couldn't say he was surprised he had managed it.

Morris Fletcher, 'former' man in black and long time enemy of all things good and just was looking far too pleased with himself for a man who had just committed cold blooded murder.

"Glad I didn't miss the party."


	33. Chapter 33

A/N: I know, I know, I've been gone for months. Sorry. I was busy with fanboys, friends, identity theft issues, comic writing related nightmares and moving into a new apartment. Forgive me, review me, loooove me again, children? Please? -hopeful look- I've missed you!

* * *

Jimmy blinked.

He blinked again.

The vision of Morris Fletcher's smarmy mug didn't vanish from his field of view, nor did the grisly scene lying in the middle of the pavement in the personage of his new allies. In all honesty, Jimmy's mind was having a hard time keeping up with all the information that had been presented to him in the past sixty seconds or so. It wasn't that he was slow, it just seemed like _so much_ to take in, it would have set anyone's brain in slow motion.

Techie had been in Yves' trunk; Kimmy was _dead_; Book was a _traitor_ and now _he_ was just as dead as Kimmy and Techie followed directly after into the world of the deceased at the hands of _Morris Fletcher_.

Jimmy's head spun like a carnival carousel. It didn't make any sense at all, yet somehow it made _perfect_ sense…which made even _less_ sense.

It was like a logical paradox.

He needed to sit down.

Though his legs _almost_ buckled under him, he kept himself in check as he tried to piece the puzzle together in his head, staring, unseeing, at the players in this particular violent game.

Unbeknownst to Jimmy, he was slipping into shock. What kept him from sliding completely into catatonia was Yves' voice as she sharply spoke to Fletcher.

"Took you long enough." The sneer was audible, even if it didn't register on her face.

"Got caught in traffic," Fletcher replied with a nonchalant shrug and a quirk of his upper lip.

Yves raised an eyebrow. "There _is_ no traffic."

"Okay, so I stopped off to pick up a pack of Morley's," he snapped, "Christ, woman, I _still_ got here in time to save your pretty little backside, didn't I? Give me a little credit for rushing in like the white knight."

Yves stepped forward and leaned over Techie's body as she spoke, retrieving her gun. "If you had been at the rendezvous point as scheduled, we could have avoided this entire catastrophe."

"Catastrophe?" Fletcher asked skeptically. "I don't see a catastrophe."

"Oh no?" Yves pried the gun from Techie's hand with ease and started cleaning the fallen woman's blood off the grip. "I see two dead TAAA agents, one of which was _already_ a valuable resource for information and another that could've been turned in time…employing the right methods."

"There you go being dramatic again." Fletched reached into his inside jacket pocket and retrieved a package of cigarettes, popping one in between his lips and lighting up. "You know the boys and Project Angel were going to kill 'em both _anyway_, informants or not…and if not kill 'em, then brain wipe 'em."

"So, would _you_ like to be the one that informs your superiors that you were directly responsible for the…_unfortunate_ demise of these two?" Yves asked innocently, straightening back up again. "I mean, if you're so _justified_ and all…"

"Hey, hey, hey, whoa, hold up there, babe," Fletcher blew a stream of white smoke out in a huff and took a few steps closer to the bodies. "It ain't _my_ fault you couldn't handle a couple of hostages and things had to get messy."

Yves' jaw clenched and then relaxed twice before she spoke. "Again, if you had been at the rendezvous point, this wouldn't have happened. _You_ were supposed to pick _this_--" she nudged Techie's body with her foot for emphasis, "up. If you had done your job, I wouldn't have had to stow the hellion in my trunk."

Fletched rolled his eyes and gave Yves the most patronizing, indulgent look he could manage. "We'll agree to disagree then; it doesn't matter much anyhow, does it? We've still got the other one and monkey boy over there."

Fletcher waved with his pinky finger at Jimmy, smiling the whole while and suddenly, shock didn't seem to be a problem anymore. The high tension cable that had been coiled so tightly within his head snapped and blind fury replaced befuddlement.

He hadn't even realized he'd taken a run at Fletcher until he found himself with a faceful of pistol butt and blood gushing from his nose.

He staggered back, pain exploding through his entire head at the sudden, unexpected impact and he instinctively covered his nose. Still, he fumed, near tears with the strength of his anger.

"You _bastard_," he spat, trembling with rage. "You **bastard**."

"Heard you the first time," Fletcher replied blithely.

"How could you just shoot somebody like that in cold blood?!"

"Point and click, Jim-Bo," the 'former' Man in Black answered. "Just like takin' pictures."

Disgusted, Jimmy turned accusing eyes on Yves. "And you…I thought you were my friend, Yves. I thought you were a friend of the _guys_…you're…you're…"

"She's _what_, Jimmy? Has she ever been honest and forthright with you in the past?" Fletcher chuckled, tossing his cigarette aside. "Face it, buddy, she's lied to you more than I have. You shouldn't have expected her to do anything else."

Something occurred to Jimmy then, something clicked inside his mind as a desperate attempt to try and explain away the bizarre behavior of the woman he _thought_ he had come to know.

"Is…are the guys behind this blackmailing you, Yves? Like they were doing to Kimmy? Is that why you're being all--"

Yves cut him off sternly, "I do what I do of my own free will, Jimmy. Project Angel pays me handsomely for my work; that's all the incentive I need."

She flipped her hair haughtily over one shoulder and lifted an eyebrow. "However, they won't be paying me _anything_ unless I deliver the goods they've hired me to acquire…and though I'm less than thrilled that I can't supply them with all four of you as originally intended, you and 327 will suffice…though my cut is bound to be a little bit lower than I had hoped."

Jimmy felt as though he'd been dealt a heavy blow to the chest. "The guys were right…money _is_ all you care about, isn't it?"

"It makes the world go 'round, Jimmy."

"You've got no ethics, no honor," a fundamental, trusting piece of Jimmy Bond was dying a slow, painful death at these realizations, "Why did I defend you for so long?"

"Oh come _on_, even an idiot like _you_ can figure _that_ much out," Fletcher piped up, sounding far too cheerful and smug for the occasion. "But we've chewed the rag long enough, kids. We _are_ on a tight schedule and we've got a little shindig to attend in New Mexico…and you're one of the guests of honor." Fletcher jerked his head at the two bodies in the road. "Leave the roadkill for highway cleanup, we got places to be."

"You make me _sick_," Jimmy replied as nastily as he could as Fletcher walked up to him, guiding him none-too-gently back to Yves' car.

"Part of the job description."


	34. Chapter 34

A/N: I'm back. For now. Who knows how long it'll last? Not I. Enjoy it while it lasts…and you know, you hundred something people that have this on alert, you could _review_ if you like it so much and want updates more than twice a year :P

--

Byers paced from one end of the motel room to the other. His hands stayed clasped tightly behind his back and his mouth was set in a grim line. He had the look of a man whose mind was a million miles away while his body ran on automatic. Like a model train on a track, he made another circuit around the room without conscious effort.

There was just _so much_ information to process. John had always been the eternally curious--ever reaching for unattainable knowledge; thirsting after is like a dying plant thirsting for water in the midst of a drought-- but now, he felt like he was drowning in the stuff. For the first time in his life, he was granted an _overabundance_ of knowledge--so much so that he could scarcely figure out what to do with it.

When anxious, Byers could usually comfort himself by sorting all the facts and figures in his head until a rational pattern emerged--but, even with as much information as he'd been given in just twenty four hours, there weren't enough _concrete_ facts to hang onto. He had plenty of puzzle pieces as his disposal, just not the ones that fit together and served as a solid basis for any kind of theory.

At least Susanne had promised that she would try to put everything into perspective, but with security being what it was at Cheyenne Mountain Complex, she told him that it would be best--for now, at any rate--to lay low and wait.

Therefore, here he stood, pacing from one end of his room to the other, nearly out of his mind with worry, not only over Susanne, but also over his friends and co-workers who could be--at that very moment--in unimaginable danger.

Kavanagh sat on one of the mattresses, knees splayed and hands clasped between them. He had been none too pleased by the situation's sudden change of dynamic with Susanne's appearance. After all, bringing the reporters to Cheyenne was supposed to mean he would be making headlines, not some dippy blonde temp from who knows where, but in the interests of keeping the peace (or, to be a bit more accurate: in the interests of covering his ass) he had given the reporter a ride back to the Dew Drop Inn.

Even he wasn't entirely sure what kept him there; logic dictated that the _smart_ thing to do would be to wash his hands of the whole mess and pretend he hadn't been involved, but perhaps part of Ted Kavanagh wanted to be in on something that no one else was. Perhaps, _just_ perhaps, he liked the idea of having some piece of knowledge that none of his co-workers--the people who treated him like garbage--could ever _dream_ of having. In truth, the idea of being privy to some mysterious conspiracy made him quite giddy--especially if it meant that through his involvement with said conspiracy, he got to expose it and be seen as a hero.

No doubt about it, he was an opportunist, through and through.

"I highly doubt you can afford the repair bill if you wear a track in the carpeting, Mister Byers."

Byers stopped and looked up, his delicate train of thought shattered by Kavanagh's underhandedly rude remark. He cleared his throat. "Doctor Kavanagh, if they're aboard the Daedelus, what are the odds that Frohike and Langly will remain…undetected?"

"Considering the idiots in charge," Kavanagh sneered, "quite high, I'd say…but there's no telling. I faked their records as research assistants well enough, I assure you, I'm no slouch when it comes to forgery, so there's a chance that even if someone figures out there's an extra two crew members aboard, they can chalk it up to a clerical error. Provided, of course, that your colleagues don't _panic_ and heap suspicion on their own heads."

"Frohike and Langly are consummate professionals, Doctor Kavanagh."

"They certainly don't _act_ like it."

Byers' nerves were already frayed and this last insult tested the boundaries of his rapidly thinning patience. Frohike often mused that Byers must've stolen the combined patient natures of half a dozen saints, but even he had limits. "I would appreciate it if you would refrain from insulting the men _you_ are responsible for endangering."

Kavanagh looked like he wanted to argue but something--call it divine providence, if you like, though it was probably just a well honed sense of self preservation--kept him from snapping back. "What do you know about the Modeski woman?"

The change in topic made Byers' eyes narrow. "Susanne Modeski was an associate of ours, years ago."

"And?"

"I don't think it's any of your business."

"I'm involved in this too, Mister Byers. Whatever is going on, I'm in the thick of it whether you like it or not…for that matter, whether _I_ like it or not."

"Susanne came to us looking for help; we gave it to her, that's really all you need to know."

"There's more to it than that…"

"Yes," John said simply. "There is."

He didn't elaborate. Kavanagh glared at him. "That's all you're going to tell me? After all I've done for you, you're going to purposely leave me in the dark about this--"

A rhythmic beating on the door startled both men and they glanced at each other. Kavanagh certainly wasn't going to answer the door--he crossed his arms over his chest to indicate as much--and Byers was forced to cross the distance and open it.

Instantly, his heart leapt into his throat. How could she still do that to him, even after all this time? He always felt like the chess club president talking to the head cheerleader when faced with her, awkward and unworthy. The silence between them stretched and for the space of half a heartbeat, he thought he might reach for her, but he stepped aside instead, allowing her to enter the room.

"I can't stay long," she began, eyeing Kavanagh with undisguised suspicion, "I'm under surveillance. I shouldn't have come at all…"

"I'm glad you did." Byers realized just how lame he sounded only after the words were out.

Susanne paid him no mind. She turned to Kavanagh. "Would you leave us, please?"

"Now wait just one damn minute here, chickadee," Kavanagh stood in an attempt at being intimidating, only to realize that Susanne was very nearly his height, "you can't just come barging in here and demand that _I_ leave. I've got rights too, you know."

Byers opened his mouth to retort. Susanne saved him the trouble.

"You were going to sell out the SGC to a group of conspiracy theorist reporters. You're _already_ considered trouble by your superiors…you have a record of disorderly, disrespectful and sometimes--dare I say it?--_mutinous_ conduct."

Kavanagh gaped. "Are you _threatening_ me? _Blackmailing me_?"

She fixed Kavanagh with an icy stare. "Leave."

For a second, Byers thought Kavanagh would put up a fight, but he just huffed, gathered his coat and took off, slamming the motel room door behind him.

Left alone, they stared at each other for a long moment, each waiting for the other to break the silence. He had so much to ask her, so much to _tell_ her, but his tongue refused to come unglued from the roof of his mouth. Speech wasn't possible, his body took over, closing the distance between them in two large steps. He took her in his arms for the first time in years and he felt whole again, his lips melding with hers, all his uncertainty, fear, grief and relief pouring into the most passionate kiss he'd ever given. He was drunk on her for a few precious seconds, her heat, her perfume, the way her hair tangled around his fingers, everything; and suddenly, those long years didn't seem so very long after all.

He pulled back and breathed deep, resting his forehead against hers, eyes shut. She instinctively answered the questions he hadn't been able to ask with a single whisper.

"It's…it's a long story, John."

"It seems I've got nothing but time."

"This isn't…I…"

"It's okay," he urged quietly, taking one of her small hands and gripping it gently, twisting it until it was clutched to his chest, his thumb caressing her skin tenderly. "You can tell me."

Susanne pulled away from him, her hand withdrawn from his, her warmth pulled from his chest. He felt the loss acutely, but said nothing. She looked downtrodden, her brow furrowing as her eyes slid shut and she dropped gracelessly onto one of the cheap motel beds. "There's no easy way to tell this story, John."

"There never is," he replied with some irony in his tone.

"After I left you, in Vegas…didn't you ever wonder why I didn't come back?"

"Of course I did." He sat down on the mattress opposite her and searched her face. She wouldn't look up at him. "I looked for you…"

She stole a glance at him. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I disappeared…I'm sorry I keep waltzing into your life only to--"

"Susanne, you don't have to apologize."

"Yes, I do. You…you don't even understand how deep it goes, John. God," she stood abruptly, "I swear, I'm your own personal tornado. I weave into your life, make a mess of it and then weave out again without looking back."

She looked up at him, her expression naked. "Except…I do look back…and regret. I don't want to keep hurting you; it just…keeps working out that way."

"Susanne, what is it?"

Her spine straightened as if she was steeling herself. "John, shortly after I left Las Vegas, I found out I was pregnant."

"Oh." It was all Byers could manage. The last time he'd seen Susanne, she'd been engaged. The man she had been in love with was a fraud who was only using her, but apparently, _some_ aspect of their relationship was genuine enough. "Oh."

He felt surprise, but it was muted somehow. Sure, he was dumbstruck and the world went topsy-turvy for a second as he came to the realization that the woman he'd just kissed was a mother, but he handled the new information incredibly well.

"I…I was going to have an abortion--I even went to a clinic," she said, making an effort to keep her voice from cracking, "but…I couldn't go through with it."

"You have a child."

"A daughter, yes. Holly." Her eyes flicked up to meet his and she smiled slightly. "At first, I didn't come back to you because I was afraid. Afraid of what you'd think of me, of how you'd react…and then the men in black started coming out of the woodwork and I _couldn't_ go back. I had to run. I couldn't risk going to you."

He nodded as she continued, gesturing as she spoke. "It was okay for awhile, hard, but okay. For a few years, I managed to win at evading them, but they eventually caught up. These men, though, they weren't the same as the men in back I've dealt with before. They called themselves the Trust."

She looked at him, stricken. "They took Holly…started making demands. I had no choice."

Something about Susanne's stance changed; she looked so _fragile_. Almost as though she were lost. "They set me up at the SGC as a scientist. I was ordered to expose someone to my anoitic histamine compound and start priming them to do the Trust's dirty work. An unwitting agent that they could control."

Byers was quiet for a moment as he considered this. "What are they planning?"

"They plan to sabotage the Atlantis base. The operative is under orders to expose one of the higher ranking scientists on Atlantis to the AH gas."

"Who? And to what end?"

"Rodney McKay. He's the best and brightest and he's got the highest level security clearance there is on Atlantis. The Trust wants to use him to gather all the information that Atlantis' databanks have to offer, transmit the data and then destroy the city."

Byers was perplexed. "That doesn't make any sense. Why destroy Atlantis when they could just seize control?"

Susanne shook her head. "You don't know the members of the Atlantis expedition, John. The city has been seized before, by forces stronger than those the Trust has at its disposal. It would be a pointless expenditure of manpower and too great a risk to try and overthrow what they can destroy. Besides, once the Ancient database and all the information it contains is in their hands, they'll have no trouble replicating the parts of the Ancient technology that they want with the database as a kind of blueprint."

"We have to do something. _Tell_ someone."

"We can't."

"Innocent people will die, Susanne!"

"You misunderstand, John," she soothed, her hand caressing his cheek. "_We_ can't do anything…not from here and not through any official channels. I don't know who's owned by the Trust and who isn't…but this mishap--Frohike and Langly winding up on the Daedelus--this might be the most fortunate thing that could've possibly happened. If we can tell them what's going on and they can blend in long enough, they might be able to stop the operative from getting to McKay."


	35. Chapter 35

With a disturbingly noticeable lack of squeaky springs, Langly flopped back on the foam mattress in his quarters (and wasn't _that_ a strange thought? Langly had quarters…on a _starship_.). Frohike, who wearily seated himself at the foot of the bed, spared his friend a withering glare that the blonde took absolutely no notice of. Against all odds, the two reporters had survived a whopping twenty-four hours aboard the Daedalus without being discovered. There had been a few close calls as the awkward men found their footing in this bizarre situation, but quick thinking and skillful bluffing had kept their cover intact. It had been somewhat nerve wracking, but they'd managed just the same.

Silence reigned for several minutes as each gunman left the other alone with his thoughts.

It didn't last.

"This is just _wild_." The words weren't really directed at Frohike in particular, Langly just seemed to feel like they needed to be said, even if the only thing that listened to him was the air.

Frohike scrubbed a hand over his cheek tiredly. The lack of a leather glove against his stubble was unnerving—it felt unnatural.

"We're in _space_, man. _Outer Space_."

"As opposed to innerspace?" Frohike asked with a sarcastic bite to his tone.

"I _hate_ that movie," Langly answered automatically. He rolled over on his side, bracing one arm on the mattress so he could rest his head in his hand. He didn't look at Frohike, just stared off into space, blue eyes unfocused. "It's like…like—"

Frohike released a long suffering sigh. "We're in way over our heads, _that's_ what it's like."

"Yeah, but…Frohike, just…dude. The past twenty four hours have been like some kind of acid trip."

"Yeah, a _bad_ one." Frohike released a breath that might have been a mirthless chuckle if he'd thrown any effort into it.

Langly sat up fully. "For the first time, we have solid, tangible evidence of everything we've ever wanted to prove. Mulder has been looking for _traces_ of this stuff for _years_ and in _one day_ we've hit the honey pot and got it _all_. Extraterrestrial life, a far reaching government conspiracy, freakin' _warp drive_, man."

"Hyper drive," Frohike corrected absently. "And it doesn't do us much good to know about all this right now, does it? There's no way in hell we're ever going to be able to publish anything about this--assuming we even _survive_."

Langly's reaction wasn't the expected one. Frohike would have been fine with it if he's started having a panic attack, but what actually transpired seemed so out of character that it caught the old reporter completely off guard. In a moment his entire demeanor changed, going from awed schoolboy to irritated punk.

"What the hell is your problem with this case, Frohike? You've been fightin' it every step of the way." He made air qoutes with his fingers and imitated his friend in a nasally voice. "'I want to go home', 'Kavanagh's a screwpot', 'We aren't going to survive'. Can't you just--for one minute--appreciate what we've stumbled into? For God's sake, you've wanted to find this stuff for years too! It's not just me and Byers. Hell, _you_ were the conspiracy hound in the eighties, long before the three of us ever hooked up. You should be excited, not bitching and moaning!"

Frohike's blood pressure hit the roof. "Do you have any idea just how deep we're in it, Langly? _Do you_? We are on a _government_ owned and operated starship. It's bad enough that we broke into Cheyenne Mountain Complex--they could put us away for _life_ for that kind of trespassing and nobody would _blink_, we'd just disappear off the face of the planet without a trace--but this? _This_? This is the sort of thing they take you out behind the barn and _shoot you for_."

Langly pegged an accusing finger at Frohike. "No, man, don't you _even_ try and pass this off as anxiety. That's a load of bull. We've been in trouble up to our necks before and you've never panicked like _this_--"

"We've have _never_ been in _this_ much trouble, Langly!" Frohike's tone was leaning dangerously close to shouting. He dropped his voice to a hiss. "This isn't like playing Cops and Robbers with Mulder and Scully. This isn't us hiding behind the scenes, banging on keyboards and knocking firewalls around looking for information, this is us in the thick of it. We aren't supposed to be here! We aren't meant to be men of action, Langly, we're better suited to sneakery and subterfuge. You know it's true. We're hackers, not superheroes."

"I don't see anybody asking you to be Batman," Langly retorted. "We're in mondo trouble, yeah, got it, roger wilco, _whatever._ But if I gotta die--and everybody's gotta go _sometime_, Frohike--I'd rather it be a bullet to the head from the gun of a G-Man in the pursuit of the big truth than a heart attack from eatin' too many Twinkies while sittin' behind a monitor."

"Oh, how _nice_ to see you going to your death with such noble _Byersian_ sentiments." Frohike hooked a thumb toward himself, jabbing the digit into his chest, "But this old dog isn't ready to give up the ghost yet. I've got a few more years in me and I am **not** prepared to be put in front of a firing squad!"

As if the universe were helping to punctuate Frohike's passionately delivered statement, the Daedelus creaked suddenly, pitching to one side and rumbling angrily. Both gunmen were tossed off their seats as the room lit up--lights changing from calm white to furious red--and klaxons started to blare.

"What in the hell was _that_?!" Langly squawked, shaking himself as he struggled to stand. The ship's movement had ceased for a moment but the moment he found his footing, it shook again. He barely remained standing.

"If I had to guess," Frohike responded, reaching out and clasping Langly's hand, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, "I'd say it's a--"

"Red Alert!" A voice over the speakers announced. "All hands to battle stations!"


	36. Chapter 36

Before Frohike could blink, Langly lurched towards the door. The ship rocked in the opposite direction, tossing Frohike backwards onto the bed and Langly had to hang onto one of the walls to remain upright. When the ship righted itself again, Frohike lunged at Langly and grabbed him by the back of his lab coat, just as the automatic doors slid open. With the next sway of the Daedalus, they were both thrown into the corridor, where they slammed into the opposite wall. Frohike's spine felt like it'd been snapped in half and he winced, sucking air in through his teeth.

"You okay, Langly?"

The ship tossed one more time and Langly's response was cut off, replaced by a pained yelp as they both landed on the floor of the corridor with a thump. The red alert continued to blare, the hallways flashing ruby, then burgundy, then ruby once more. Frohike struggled to his feet and hauled Langly to his feet. He slammed his fist on the control panel and opened the doors to their quarters and yanked Langly inside. The Daedalus mercifully remained still long enough for the doors to close once more and Frohike rounded on his colleague.

"What in the hell did you think you were doing?" he squawked, his voice as shrill as it had ever been.

Langly pushed his lab coat sleeves up, bunching them at the elbows. "Didn't you hear the announcement, Frohike? All hands to battle stations."

"They don't mean _us_, you idiot. We--" he gestured between himself and the man standing opposite with urgency, "don't _belong_ here. Ergo, we don't _have_ any battle stations."

"Hey, our butts are on the line just the same as the _real_ crew of this ship," Langly argued. "We should be doing _something_."

"Oh? Like _what_? Just twenty-four hours ago you didn't even want to _touch_ anything in case you accidentally blew us to kingdom come, now you want to play Luke Skywalker, Savior of Mankind?"

"I'm more familiar with the technology now," Langly said defensively. "We can't just sit here while we're under attack or whatever."

"_Or whatever_? This is exactly my point, Langly: we don't know what's going on or what we might be facing!_"_

"We aren't going to find out standing around in here, are we?" Langly started for the door again. Frohike made a grab for his sleeve, but missed, and he strode back out into the corridor. Frohike was hot on his heels.

"This is a bad idea, Langly," he hissed.

"Just making the best of a bad situation." The blonde geek stopped in front of one of the computer labs, opened the door and ducked inside, forcing Frohike to follow him. The room was empty--its inhabitants having abandoned it when the red alert first sounded. Langly selected a computer, sat down and turned it on. Frohike stomped over and sat down next to him at the next available computer terminal and started pecking at the keys.

"I'm going to see what information the sensors are feeding the brains of the ship. Get a look at what we're fighting with," Langly said unnecessarily, as though Frohike actually _cared_ what he was doing. "Maybe you can check on vital systems?"

"Like I know what those _are_," Frohike muttered irritably. "It's a better bet to monitor radio chatter to find out what's going on."

They were silent for a few minutes, Langly's eyes flicking over the seemingly nonsensical strings of text that flashed across the screen, his mind working double-time to unravel what they meant. He knew some of the abbreviations and shorthand that the system used, but the rest was gibberish. After a few minutes, he managed to decipher, through educated guesses and a lot of luck, what a few of the gibberish words must have meant and from there, it was like working on a cryptogram. Decode one word, slowly decode the others through the process of elimination. In less than ten minutes, he had most of the basic commands down.

Frohike, for his part, listened hard to the messages being shot back and forth across decks. Engineering to the bridge, sickbay to engineering, navigation to the bridge; back and forth, a hundred conversations from a dozen different sources, all of them using different words, some of them different languages, but all of them with the same desperate tone to their babble: _we're in trouble_.

The ship shook again. Both gunmen kept their seats, compensating for the violent quake by hanging onto the lab tables--which were bolted in place. Immediately, the chatter from his headset got louder, more insistent.

_Life support systems hit--_

_We've got three wounded--_

_Cargo bay three, decompression--_

_Situation critical--_

_Hyperdrive offline--_

_Engineering to sickbay! We need a medical team down here now!_

_Hull breach, deck fifteen--_

Frohike would have been lying if he had tried to deny that the increasing sense of urgency and fear that he heard over the comm. link made him anxious. With each passing minute, the voices grew in number, their messages blending together into one huge mass of terror. The ship was under attack, they didn't know who was on the offensive and the number of wounded was growing.

"Frohike," Langly said, not taking his eyes off the screen in front of him, drawing Frohike out of his eavesdropping, "there's a piece of information floating around in here that doesn't match the others."

He tugged off his headset. "What?"

Langly touched the rapidly changing lines of text with one finger: hundreds of lines flickered in and out, numbers and letters changing, but one didn't. "This code--_all_ this code, even the alien stuff--has the same…I don't know, _feel_ to it, like it was all written by the same person, or at least by the same group of people. This data chain doesn't match."

"Do you know what it is?"

Langly laughed a little, a nervous sound. "It's crazy. I mean, like _mega_ crazy, Frohike, 'cause if I'm decoding it right--and I might not be--it says _Feed Your Head_."

Frohike stared at Langly, then scooted his chair over to get a better look at his screen. "_Jefferson Airplane_? But that's…that's _insane_. It _can't_ be."

"It's a _White Rabbit_,get it?" Langly responded, tapping the line of letters. "And what do you do when you see a white rabbit?"

"Follow it down the rabbit hole," Frohike mumbled. "It might as well be screaming _click me_. What do you figure? Some kind of virus?"

"I don't think so. I think it's a message." Langly jabbed at the keyboard a few times, pulling up another display. "All the other data originates from somewhere in the ship's systems, right? _Feed Your Head_ doesn't. Best I can tell, it piggybacked on a data stream received…uhm…six hours ago…and there's a file attached to the code, hidden somewhere in the ship's systems. It can only be accessed using the gateway the code provides."

"So, it could still be something meant to sabotage the ship. Something sent remotely that could trigger a self destruct sequence or something."

Langly shook his head. "Use your head, Frohike. If you were going to infect a computer like the ones on this ship with a virus, would you call attention to it? No, you'd attach it to some innocuous system so that someone would trigger it by...I don't know, turning on the lights in their quarters."

"Okay, so it's a message. From _who_?"

"Well, who do we know on Earth who might use _White Rabbit_ to get somebody's attention?"

"Don't be stupid. It's not Byers," Frohike said. "It _can't_ be. If it were the Beatles, _maybe_, but stoner music?"

The Daedalus heaved again and a computer in the corner exploded in a shower of sparks. With a squeal, the speakers came back on and announced, "Hull collapse imminent, ten minutes! All hands, abandon ship! Proceed to escape pods immediately!"

Frohike and Langly looked at each other, then back at the computer. "Fine, nothing to lose, hit it."

Langly lost no time and followed _Feed Your Head_ down the proverbial rabbit hole. In the space of a few seconds, the words on the screen dissolved, to be replaced with a badly garbled video file. The picture was dark and static-y, but the voice was familiar to him, even as it cut in and out, parts of the message obscured by white noise.

"_---the Trust---saboteur on the Daedalus. His target is Rodn---on Atlantis---intends to use AH gas---brainwash---he wants---collect information from---destroy the city---you have to protect---McKay---"_

"Seven minutes! All hands abandon ship!"

Frohike made a dive for the nearest jump drive and shoved it at Langly. "Save it! We'll take it with us."

Quick as a flash, Langly crammed the small silver device into the computer's USB port and transferred the file.

"Come on, come on, come on," he urged, watching as the progress meter filled much too slowly from zero to a hundred percent. "Got it!"

Immediately, Langly launched himself out of his chair and they scampered out of the lab, moments before the computer terminals began overloading. The corridor was packed with scientists and they got separated in the shuffle, Langly being pushed one direction, Frohike in the opposite.

"Langly!"

"Fro--"

Frohike tried to fight his way through the crowd but it was useless. Langly did the same and found the endeavor just as futile on his end.

"I'll find you!" Langly shouted over the din, hoping that Frohike could hear him as he was pushed towards one of the escape pod bays.

There was an incoherent shout in reply, presumably assuring Langly of the same thing and with one final shove, he was thrust unceremoniously into one of the pods. He stumbled and reached for one of the walls to steady himself. When his footing was solid again, he staggered to one of the seats and flopped in it. He fumbled with the seat belt but secured himself after only a minute of struggle. Three more people entered the pod. Two sat down immediately and strapped themselves in, while the third closed the pod door behind him.

"Everyone alright?" he asked, turning to survey the pod's inhabitants before he took a seat of his own, next to the pod's control panel. He clicked his seat belt and punched some buttons on the keypad. The little ship creaked noisily as it pushed away from the Daedalus and Langly dropped his chin to his chest, hiding behind his hair.

"Fine, Doctor Lee," one of the other escapees answered breathlessly, his voice a smooth down-home Texas drawl.

"A few scratches, but fine," the second answered, her pronunciation betraying her roots in France.

Langly murmured his assent. Only after he'd spoken did he realize it might have been smart to fake an accent. If he had, he could have pretended to have only a rudimentary understanding of English, and therefore wouldn't have to do much talking. He mentally kicked himself. _Great, now I'll have to __**interact**__._

"Good. Colonel Caldwell will be transmitting coordinates to us shortly," Doctor Lee continued, "he'll be leading the escape pods with our small contingent of Puddle Jumpers to the nearest planet with a 'gate."

"What got us, sir?" the Texan asked. Langly chanced to look up at him through his hair. A ruggedly handsome type with a square chin, thick glasses and a Clark Kent spit curl. "I was in sickbay during the attack."

"Three Wraith ships," Lee answered dutifully. "They were destroyed but…well, they gave as good as they got."

"_Wraith_? This close to the Milky Way?" the little French scientist queried.

"Ah hum, yes. We don't know how, or why…I'm sure we'll find out when we contact Earth. For now, we sit tight and wait for Caldwell's orders. It should be anytime now." Lee shifted in his seat, glancing at the tiny screen on the control panel and then turned his attention to the other inhabitants of the pod. "So, you're all new staff, aren't you?"

"Yessiree bob."

"_Oui._"

Langly coughed a little. "_Brand_ new."

"Well, at least this will give us a chance to get to know each other a little better."


	37. Chapter 37

_Meanwhile…_

Dawn broke, streaking the sky with fingers of violet and crimson and the faintest slivers of gold. The arid desert landscape couldn't take anything away from the beauty of a sunrise as seen from the highway and as Jimmy awoke, groggily opening his eyes, he had a few wonderful, drowsy moments of wonder at the magnificence of the morning. Then, from his left, a nasally snore forced him to come to consciousness completely and reality slammed him in the head like a brick.

He was in the back of Yves' car, 327 flopped against his shoulder like a drunken prom date, mouth wide open and drooling on his shirt. Morris Fletcher's car trailed behind them, roughly three car lengths back, swerving a little on the deserted road. The funny thing was, though Jimmy was certain it was Yves' car they inhabited, the Englishwoman was _not_ the one behind the wheel. Instead, the balding blonde head of Jimmy's least favorite man in black lay against the driver's headrest. From the radio, some seventies rock/folk rock song issued forth, a chorus of melodious voices singing in harmony about a hotel in California. Jimmy registered it as being vaguely familiar, but was too muddled to care what it was specifically.

As Jimmy came fully awake, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, yawned broadly and then cast suspicious eyes to the rearview mirror. Fletcher met his gaze instantly, as though he had some sixth sense about being watched, and smirked.

"Good morning, starshine," Morris sing-songed a little loudly.

With a violent snort, 327 jerked awake and stared at his surroundings in confusion, wincing when he jostled his broken arm in his instant of disorientation. "Hair! What?"

Morris' eyelids slid to half mast in the mirror, making him look even more unctuous. "Have a nice nap, boys?"

Jimmy didn't respond. He didn't have to. 327 summed up his feelings quite neatly with a few muttered oaths and the extension of his middle finger where Morris could see it clearly in the mirror.

Fletcher remained impassive as he clucked his tongue like a disappointed parent. "Tsk. Such manners."

"Hey, screw you," 327 spat, wiping drool from his chin with his sleeve as he did so. "Being a hostage always makes me a little bit _cranky_."

"Hostage? You're just looking at this situation the wrong way."

327's eyes narrowed and he made a noise that could have been a mocking laugh. "I suppose I'm a _guest_ of the U.S. Government, yeah? _Right._"

"You could be," Morris replied, flipping the windshield visor down in front of his eyes as the sun crept up over the horizon. "You know, it doesn't have to be difficult. You could cooperate. A little information, a little of one hand washing the other…"

"A little _betrayal_," Jimmy muttered, crossing his arms over his chest and sulking.

"You are so _negative_." Fletcher sighed. "I'm trying to make a _helpful_ suggestion over here."

"You're suggesting that we sell out our friends," 327 snapped.

"I'm suggesting you make the best of a bad situation." Morris glanced back over his shoulder at his prisoners. "Tick tock, boys. Within an hour we'll be on _my_ home turf and some very bad men will be pumping you for information in a variety of unpleasant ways--and these guys know _every_ unpleasant way there is."

327 shifted nervously in his seat but Jimmy remained pokerfaced.

"I'm just saying that if you're going to make a deal with the devil," Morris continued, "_now_ would be the time."

"Never going to happen," Jimmy bit out.

"And how 'bout you, cowboy?"

327 turned his attention to the window nearest him, indicating that Fletcher wasn't even worth looking at during conversation. "What do you _think_, sleaze?"

Morris blew out a breath. "Well, nobody can say I didn't try."


End file.
